


Whumptober 2020 - The Musketeers whumps

by 29Pieces



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Aramis Whump, Athos Whump, BAMF Constance Bonacieux, Branding, Broken Bones, Brother Feels, Concussions, Episode: s01e02 Sleight of Hand, Episode: s02e10 Trial and Punishment, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Poisoning, Porthos Whump, Pre-Series, Protective Athos, Protective Siblings, Psychological Torture, Revenge, Shipwrecks, Sick Aramis, Slavery, Starvation, Torture, Uncle Musketeers, Whumptober 2020, brothers to the rescue, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26771905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/29Pieces/pseuds/29Pieces
Summary: Chp 1 - Pick Who DiesChp 2 - CagedChp 3 - No MoreChp 4 - AbandonedChp 5 - Trail of BloodChp 6 - Broken BonesChp 7 - BrandingChp 8 - Forced to BegChp 9 - Panic AttackChp 10 - LostChp 11 - PoisonedChp 12 - BlindfoldedChp 13 - ConcussionChp 14 - AccidentsChp 15 - Wound Reveal
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947475
Comments: 102
Kudos: 154
Collections: The Musketeers Whump Collection, Whumptober 2020





	1. #2. Pick Who Dies

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Musketeers side of Whumptober! I'll be alternating between these guys and Good Omens, so you'll find every other prompt here for our Muskies :) Thanks so much to Aini Nufire for looking over all of these for me!
> 
> We open with prompt #2: Pick Who Dies. This one is set in a slight AU in which a few details are different, but you'll spot those as you go. Or you won't, and then it doesn't matter anyway. And while I realize that Athos would have known Milady as "Anne", I have a hard time using that for her name because, well, that's the queen. And besides, I think by this point in time, Athos would have put that behind him, so while he does address her as Anne once here, the rest of the time she's referred to in narration as Milady.

**#2: Pick Who Dies - Milady wasn't done with him, not by a long shot. Killing him would have been satisfying, but then an even better chance presents itself.**

* * *

"Where are you taking me?" Athos growled again for what might have been the first or the hundred and first time, for all the attention his captor paid him. As before, the only response was a sharp tug on the rope that circled Athos's neck, a noose turned the wrong direction. With his hands bound behind him, Athos wouldn't be able to catch himself if he tripped over an exposed root, so he hurried forward a few paces to make more slack in the line. It enraged him, being led like a pack mule behind the hooded and cloaked man on his horse, but he forced himself to stay calm.

As of yet, he had no idea who the man was, what he might want, or where they were going. The noose he wore boded ill for the conclusion of this misadventure, but if he was intended to hang then for God's sake, why did the man not simply find a tree and finish this business?

Athos's one consolation was that his brothers were to have caught up to him that morning on the road to Chavignon on an errand for the King. With luck, they would have found his camp he'd been taken from and follow the trail he was trying to leave in his wake through the woods on a course that he didn't recognize-

Wait. Athos's eyes widened, lips parting in shock and a sudden thrill of nerves in his chest. He- he did recognize...

"Who are you?" he shouted louder, trying to dig his heels in and force the man to stop. "I demand you show yourself! Why are you doing this?"

And still there was no reply, nothing but another insistent tug on the rope so that Athos had to hurry forward again. His breaths came harder now, eyes darting back and forth over the familiar terrain, and when the woods opened up to a broad knoll containing a single tree, Athos felt the weight of every second of misery he'd ever tried to drink away fall heavy on his shoulders. He was home.

When he saw the woman seated on a horse of her own by the tree, Athos finally ground his boots into the grass. The noose tightened around his neck, but the man leading him halted at a gesture from the woman—Athos's wife.

The musketeer glared at her, as Milady kicked her horse forward until she was a few feet away from him.

"You remember this?" she asked with a small smile. "You tried to kill me at this very tree. Seems a fitting place for your end."

Athos glared at her, then shifted his eyes to the hooded man who had delivered him here to be murdered. His captor pulled his hood aside at last, and Athos was left even more stunned and betrayed. "Remy..."

The blacksmith who had served as his wife's executioner looked away, expression troubled but unyielding. Athos had no doubt he was too far under Milady's sway. When she held out her hand, he silently relinquished the other end of the rope then leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Milady frowned, turning abruptly and yanking Athos the rest of the way over to the tree. She had the rope arranged in a matter of seconds, slung over the same branch he had used for her own supposed execution and pulled taut until he could barely breathe.

But instead of finishing the job, she repositioned herself on the other side of him and shouted,

"Come on out now, boys, you don't want to keep a lady waiting!"

"What-" Athos croaked around the noose, twisting to look back towards the woods. His eyes widened when, a second later, he saw two shapes carefully step forward from the treeline.

A nod from Milady had Remy cantering back towards them, gesturing for the two shapes to move closer. Even from that distance, he recognized Porthos's burly form and d'Artagnan's lithe one.

"Don't," he immediately choked out, gagging when she pulled harder on the noose to cut him off. Athos shook his head instead, trying to catch his brothers' eyes and silently implore them not to do anything stupid.

"You hurt?" Porthos grunted as the two cautiously stepped closer.

Athos shook his head but still had to gasp for each choked breath with the rope so tight around his throat. The sound made Porthos clench his jaw harder, glaring over Athos's shoulder.

"Let him go, or I warn you..."

"Both of you, swords," Milady commanded, ignoring the threat. "Unless you want to watch dear Athos swinging in the breeze."

Two pistols cocked from behind them, Remy still on his horse with a weapon in either hand, mere inches from the backs of their heads. Porthos and d'Artagnan traded a careful look, then in unison unbuckled their sword belts and let them fall to the sides. At Milady's direction and with Athos's life in the balance, they similarly divested themselves of pistols and daggers.

"Milady... Now let's talk about this," d'Artagnan suggested, holding out his empty hands.

"Yes, let's," Milady agreed. She nodded to Remy, who moved his horse forward enough to touch the pistols to the backs of their heads. Athos saw both his brothers go rigid and he thrashed in his bonds.

"Stop," he choked out, feeling a bit of slack return to the rope as Milady leaned down to kiss his temple.

"Now then, my love," she murmured. "I had only planned to kill you and be done with it. But I must admit, I like this better. You think you have the right to choose who lives and who dies? Then... choose."

Remy pressed the guns harder against Porthos and d'Artagnan's heads, making both of them grimace. Athos struggled against the ropes and seethed,

"No."

"You have my word, whichever you choose, I'll let the other live. I'll even let you go. Or... you don't choose, and I kill both of them and set you free to live with knowing you could have saved one of them."

"Anne," Athos whispered. "Don't do this. Don't."

"You have until three. One..."

"Don't!"

"Two..."

"Just kill _me_ , let them go!" His terrified eyes turned to Porthos and d'Artagnan, but rather than looking afraid, they were watching him with utter confidence. Porthos winked.

"Three."

The crack of gunfire split the air and Athos cried out, but neither of his brothers fell. Instead, he found the rope tethering him to the tree and Milady now slack, severed by a well-placed musket ball. Both Porthos and d'Artagnan seemed to have been waiting for this as they ducked aside before Remy could gather his wits. A second shot felled the blacksmith from his horse, bleeding from the chest.

A sharp curse from Milady was the only response, and then hoofbeats behind Athos as she galloped away, leaving Remy to thrash and fade. Athos stumbled to the ground, barely registering his brothers' hands as they rushed forward to free his wrists and pull away the noose.

"Athos! Hey, Athos... you with us?" Porthos asked, giving his cheek a heavy pat. "Damn, she's long gone."

"Least he's still alive," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Unlike this fellow, whoever he is."

"Is he alright?" a third voice demanded, Aramis racing into Athos's field of vision, sporting a worried frown. "Athos. Were you injured?"

Dazedly, he shook his head, but reached out for Porthos and d'Artagnan instead of trying to find words. He clutched their arms, wild eyes searching both of theirs to make sure they really were still there with him. The thought of losing another brother, at the hands of his wife, because of his own actions... Athos's chest heaved in panic as the image took over and refused to release his mind. If Aramis hadn't been there, the best shot in the garrison… One of them, dead. _Both_ of them, dead, shot down like dogs at the whim of Milady...

"Athos," Porthos said firmly, cupping his cheek and forcing his gaze back to meet his. "We're alive."

Athos swallowed and collapsed back with a sigh. Of course Porthos would know what was going through his head, without a single word being spoken. Didn't they always, his brothers. Milady hadn't taken them from him.

God help him, she would never take anyone away from him ever again.


	2. #4. Caged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting is generic adventure time, let's say S1.

**4\. Caged – Mistaken for a runaway slave, Porthos finds himself in a bad spot with a pack of slavers taking him back to "his master".**

* * *

Porthos grunted as the cart ran over an exposed tree root, jostling the occupants, though the others did little more than curl in on themselves even tighter. Without the ability to speak thanks to the gag—apparently they'd gotten tired of his constant threats of what would happen to them when he got loose—the burly musketeer couldn't do much more than glower at the back of the driver's head through the bars.

This did, of course, absolutely nothing. Porthos's heart beat a little quicker as he once again shoved down the thought that he might actually not get out of this. He pulled at the ropes lashing his wrists to one of the bars behind his back—apparently they had also gotten wary of his yanking at the metal. Maybe it had occurred to them that he actually could break loose if they didn't restrain him, and when he did, Porthos was going to tear these people limb from limb.

_"Get off of me!" he slurred at the group of six heavily muscled men who'd followed him all the way from the tavern that night, waiting to accost him until they'd reached an empty street. If he'd been a little more sober, they would already be dead._

_"Come on, grab him, we don't have all night," the one hanging prudently back ordered, holding a set of manacles. "That's the last one on the list."_

_"I said get off!"_

_"Shut your mouth, runaway, or I'll shut it for you."_

Runaway. Porthos's glower deepened and darkened as he eyed the men who had taken him. "Retrieval experts" they had called themselves. Helping rich men reclaim lost "property". It didn't matter that Porthos was wearing a pauldron; his skin was dark and therefore he matched the description of the man they were trying to find, with no other qualifiers. It didn't matter that the name they called him didn't belong to him. It didn't matter that the man they said was looking for him had never crossed paths with Porthos in his life. It didn't matter that Porthos was a free man. As far as they were concerned, he was the escaped slave they'd been paid to track down and drag back to an angry master.

Porthos wondered if the "master" in question would even remark on the fact that Porthos was _clearly_ not whoever he was looking for, or simply accept the new slave as a stroke of good fortune.

His one consolation was that the cage currently housing himself and five other "runaways"—and who knew if they even were, in fact, runaways—was heading further inland, not to Le Havre. It would have been much harder to make his way back home if they took him across the ocean. As long as he was still in France, Porthos had a fighting chance, and a fighting chance was all he needed.

And yet, for all the fury he threw at his captors, resulting in the restraints and gag, Porthos felt the icy shiver of dread snaking through his veins. What if he _couldn't_ get away? His brothers would notice he was missing, but how could they ever hope to find him? Though he knew he couldn't give in to despair, the musketeer closed his eyes, head starting to droop.

"Fine day, isn't it?"

He knew that voice...

Porthos's eyes snapped back open, heart thudding in relief as the cart squealed to a halt. Lady Luck was shining on him again at last. Despite the gag, Porthos's lips twitched towards a malicious grin at the sight of Aramis, sitting on his horse in their path, quite at ease but for the rigid set to his shoulders that spoke of his fury.

"What do you want?" one of the "retrievers" asked, not nearly as frightened as he ought to be.

"An explanation, for one thing," Aramis replied with a benevolent smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Where exactly are you taking Porthos?"

"Who?"

Aramis's eyebrows rose as Porthos tugged against the ropes lashing his hands to the cage bars. "You mean you don't even know who you're carting around?"

"Escaped slaves," the man in charge retorted, gesturing to the prisoners—most of whom kept their eyes lowered in fear and dejection.

Porthos saw Aramis's jaw clench, though the smile didn't diminish.

"I see there's been a misunderstanding," the marksman charitably allowed. "Perhaps Porthos forgot to tell you he wasn't an escaped slave. I'm sure the pauldron he's wearing must have somehow been overlooked. An easy mistake," he finished, heavy with sarcasm. "However, the King of France is going to be _very_ displeased that you tried to kidnap one of his personal guards."

They were finally starting to look uneasy, Porthos saw with delight. Several of them began muttering to each other, shifting their weight and throwing glances over their shoulder—it was all too obvious which of the prisoners Aramis was talking about, and Porthos growled at them through the gag just to make sure they understood what a mistake they had made.

The leader looked at him, then at Aramis, clearly nervous. "I- he never said-"

Porthos threw himself against the restraints at the blatant lie, leveling a muffled shout around the cloth filling his mouth.

"Hmm," Aramis said. "Anyhow, as I'm sure you know, the punishment is, well... death."

The leader drew his pistol and leveled it at Aramis, face white and drawn. "Not if no one ever knows. One body, left out in the wilderness, anything could have happened to you, if you're ever even found. And this one... take away the pauldron... rearrange his face a little... who's to know the difference?"

Aramis didn't blink. "Not a wise decision."

The gunshot made the other prisoners duck in terror, but the man aiming his pistol at Aramis dropped like a stone. The remaining slavers scattered with shouts of alarm as another shot felled a second man. Aramis drew both his pistols and took down two more just as Athos and d'Artagnan emerged from the woods on either side, swords extended to persuade those trying to run for it to think again. Of the original six, only two were left standing.

"Wait, wait!" one of them cried, holding out his hands in supplication. "It's an honest job, it is. Runaway slaves-"

"Which Porthos is not," Aramis reminded him with the same feline smile barely restraining a smoldering rage.

"Leads to some awkward questions," d'Artagnan put in, nodding towards the cart. "Like... are _any_ of them? Or do you just grab anyone you can find and collect a fee?"

"One question—answer correctly and it may save your lives long enough for a trial," Athos said quietly, glower nearly as sharp as his extended blade. "Where are the keys to that cage?"

Both the men frantically pointed at the dead body of the lead man. Aramis stowed his guns away in order to rifle through the man's coat, emerging with a set of keys on a large ring. He hurried to the cart and undid the heavy padlock.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis called once he was in, tossing the keys to the younger musketeer and gesturing at the other prisoners who were finally starting to look hopeful. Bypassing them, Aramis went straight for Porthos, pulling the cloth out of his mouth and giving him a tight smile. "Sorry it took so long," he said as Porthos worked his jaw and licked dry lips. "Are you alright?"

"Mm," Porthos replied. "Wasn't sure you'd find me at all."

"It was your turn to muck the stables this morning," Aramis shrugged, drawing his main gauche to slice through the ropes around Porthos's wrists. "Thought you'd get out of it that easy?"

His tone was light, but his eyes were worried and, when Porthos was finally free, his embrace was heavy. Porthos returned the gesture. He wasn't fooled by the flippancy; he could only imagine how fast his friends would have had to push the horses to catch up with him after so much of a lead.

How could he have ever doubted? Of course they would always come for him. No matter the odds. No matter the risks. No matter what.


	3. #6. No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting is pre-series. Athos is a relatively new recruit so they aren't yet the friendship they're bound for ^_^

**#6. No More - A newly recruited Athos has seen some thing, but he's never seen this level of torture done to anyone who lived to tell the tale. At the very least, this musketeer named Aramis must have surely given up whatever secret he was carrying. Then again, Athos has been surprised before.**

* * *

Athos could smell the blood as he pushed into the tiny cell ahead of the other musketeer, a burly brawler named Porthos. It boded poorly for the man they'd been sent to find. Though the careful blankness of his expression never shifted, Athos couldn't help but pause as he took in the sight of the prisoner.

Porthos, in contrast, shoved past him with a cry.

"Aramis! Aramis... God, don' be dead, please don' be dead..."

Athos raised a hand to his mouth and forced himself to remain calm and in control. He'd only worked closely with Aramis once, long enough to know the man as a perpetually cheerful if somewhat roguish lover of life, the constant center of attention, ready with a quip or a fight depending on the situation. Athos had few, if any, friends; he could have seen himself befriending this one. It didn't seem he would have the opportunity now.

"Help me cut 'im down," Porthos snapped, drawing Athos back to the present moment. "We gotta stop the bleeding. Stitch 'im up, maybe. Something."

Biting back his fear that it was too late for Aramis, Athos nevertheless moved in swiftly to help Porthos, supporting Aramis's weight as the taller musketeer drew a dagger to slice through the rope holding Aramis's arms high overhead. Athos moved to set him carefully on the floor, but Porthos scooped him up instead.

"Not in here," Porthos bit out. "Outside. I've got him, just keep our path clear."

Again, Athos bit back any remark. He had the impression that the two were close, and since he himself knew the feeling of finding a beloved brother already dead, he also knew there were no words of comfort to be had. Though they had already dispatched all of the guards, Athos nevertheless drew his sword again and led the way from the dungeons and out of the castle. None of the household staff dared show themselves and the Comte himself had yet to be seen. This, Athos knew, was not good. Soon there would be awkward questions they would have to consider.

After all, Aramis _had_ been meeting with a Spanish spy, and the castle _was_ a mere handful of miles to the border. The identity of a traitor and spy was valuable information. And Aramis, though a musketeer with an obviously loyal heart, had to have a breaking point like any other man.

"Where's his horse?" Porthos grunted once they'd reached the sweeping lawn out back where they had left their mounts. Aramis's had been found wandering on its own, though Athos gave Porthos an incredulous stare. Clearly Aramis wasn't riding anywhere, unless it was in the back of a cart headed for a cemetery. Perhaps Porthos read this on his face, because he snarled, "His _horse_ , damn it! I need his bag! An' we need water, somethin' to wash these cuts out!"

"Porthos..."

"He's alive. I, uh... I ain't ever stitched anyone up before. You?"

Athos regarded the bloody mess of a musketeer that Porthos laid carefully down on the ground. "Once or twice. But-"

"Good. He's got a medical kit he keeps in th' saddlebags, dig that out. I'll get the water."

Athos watched him lumber off. He still had his doubts, but he had to admit, Porthos's ferocious faith that Aramis would still make it out of this urged him to try anyway. Rifling through the spare horse's saddlebags, Athos retrieved a leather pouch which he unrolled to reveal some of the more basic medical instruments. Also in the bag was a swath of bandages and clean rags, which he likewise retrieved. Kneeling over the unconscious musketeer, Athos looked him over helplessly, not sure where to even begin. It looked like mostly cuts and gashes from a blade, deep and nasty, and almost all would require sutures. He saw at least one burn and three broken fingers. Aramis's left shoulder was clearly dislocated.

Getting his doublet off would be a good start, but would jostle the arm too much. Athos regarded the limb, then took Aramis's arm.

"Apologies," he murmured to the unconscious musketeer, before swiftly pulling until he heard the pop of a bone returning to socket.

Aramis's eyes flew open as a garbled cry was ripped from his throat. The musketeer immediately began to thrash back from Athos, arms flailing in an attempt to protect himself. Athos grabbed Aramis's wrists in fear that the musketeer would only cause more damage to himself.

"Aramis," he called. "You're safe. It's me... Athos."

" _Aramis_?" Porthos had returned, carrying a bucket of water he'd procured, some of which sloshed out over the downed musketeer as Porthos flung himself by his friend's side. "Hey... hey, you're with me, you're alright."

Aramis sank back down, staring up at them through pain-glazed eyes. "Porthos," he whispered.

"Yeah, it's me. We're gonna fix you right up, okay?"

Aramis nodded, then his head drifted back to the side, eyes falling closed. Athos traded a look with Porthos over his still form, but neither spoke. Together, they worked Aramis's doublet off—it would need a myriad of repairs as well, if he survived to wear it again—and surveyed the mess. Athos retrieved the needle and thread from the medic pouch as Porthos started washing the blood away.

"Damn, he's lost a lot of it," Porthos growled. "When I get my hands on that Comte..."

"There isn't time for that," Athos reminded him as he pinched one freshly cleaned gouge together and set the needle to skin in determination. "I can sew these wounds, but we should consider the possibility that Treville needs to be warned."

Porthos stopped what he was doing to stare at him. "Warned about what?"

He really didn't want to be the one to acknowledge the risk, but if Porthos didn't then he would. "What cause would there be to torture him like this if not for the name of the spy he was sent to meet? The Comte must have learned about his mission somehow-"

"An' you think Aramis _told_ him?"

There was a dangerous rumble in Porthos's voice, so Athos offered a deferential shrug. "I'm only saying, no one can be expected to hold out forever, no matter how loyal, and this- Porthos, they spent a _lot_ of time on him."

"I know yer new here," Porthos seethed, jaw clenching. "An' you don't know Aramis like I do. He didn't give 'em _anything_. Got it?"

Torn between admiration of the loyalty and exasperation at the frank denial, Athos only nodded and went back to sewing Aramis up. He couldn't tell if Aramis was awake or not, breaths shuddering and lids closed, but if he was awake he didn't make a sound. It took what must have been hours, until Athos's hand was starting to cramp from holding the needle, back aching as he stitched as well as he could. Doubtless these would leave visible scars—he had only a rudimentary idea of how to do this, nothing fancy. But at least Aramis wouldn't bleed out from them. This done, Athos splinted the broken fingers together to be looked at when they returned to Paris and simply put a bandage over the burn, as there was no healing ointment on hand.

"What else?" he asked in exhaustion, starting to roll Aramis back onto his side to check for further injury.

The movement jostled the tortured musketeer, who inhaled sharply with a pained cough.

"No more..."

"Aramis," Porthos murmured, sounding pained himself. "I know it hurts, but we gotta make sure there's nothin' open for infection, right?"

Eyes still closed, Aramis nodded. "No more," he repeated, a little stronger.

Athos felt his shoulders grow heavy and he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, a rare slip of emotion and regret coloring his tone. "I believe we're almost done and then you can-"

"No... there's no more," Aramis cut him off, opening his eyes with a wince. "You got them all. I c-counted. That's all they ever managed to do."

Athos stared at him. "...That's... all?" he echoed in disbelief. There had been enough blood to drown a village in that cell, yards of thread needed to finish all the stitches, but that was "all" they'd done to him? He saw Porthos barely bite back a smirk, but in this case Athos would be more than happy to have been proven wrong.

"What did they want?" the burly musketeer asked his friend now, cupping the back of his neck carefully.

Aramis coughed. "Wanted to know who I was meeting. I don't know how word got out."

Athos traded a look with Porthos. "And...?"

"And nothing. They thought they could convince me to tell them." He snorted. "Amateurs."

Porthos laughed, relief and fondness evident in the gentle squeeze of Aramis's good shoulder. "Good thing we found you, then," he said gleefully. "Before they died of embarrassment."

"Good thing," Aramis agreed. "Was s-starting to get bored." Nevertheless, his eyes were still pained as he gripped both of their arms and didn't try to move. "Thank you."

Athos found himself smiling, not something he often did. These were men he could get used to being around, he decided. "Let's not make a repeat of this though, alright?" he dryly suggested, to be met with a tired chuckle from Aramis.

"No," the musketeer agreed, closing his eyes. "No, no more."


	4. #8. Abandoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in an AU S3 where Aramis stayed with the musketeers for the sake of my heart. The four are at war with Spain.
> 
> That sounds like it's four musketeers who have declared war on a large country, let's try that again: the war with Spain is ongoing and all four of the musketeers are present for it! XD

**#8 - He wanted to believe they were coming for him, that he wouldn't remain a prisoner of Spain for the rest of his life. His friends... they wouldn't... they wouldn't just abandon him. But it's getting harder and harder to keep faith.**

* * *

"Your friends have abandoned you to us, Frenchman. Comprende?"

He hears the voice, head lolling vaguely in its direction. Eyelids flutter open against the haze of whatever they've been dosing him with. Everything hurts. They haven't _hurt_ him too badly, at least not that he can tell. Nothing worse than an acceptable level of getting a little roughed up by guards with too much time and not enough oversight. But he's been sitting or laying on this cold stone floor for- actually, he doesn't know how long it's been. How can he mark the passing of time in a windowless cell when he's spending half of his time drugged?

"No, they haven't," he slurs out loud in French. At least one or two of the Spaniards know the language; they're the ones who've been asking him questions.

A face swims into focus, offering a smile that's meant to be rendered as sympathetic but more resembles scorn. Someone grabs his hair and wrenches his head back and he can't help but hiss in discomfort and surprise. His reflexes are dulled by drugs and hunger.

"We hadn't intended on keeping you," the soldier speaking to him says, also in French but with a foreign accent. "The price for your freedom isn't much. Anything that might be helpful. How many battalions are held in reserve? Which direction will reinforcements be coming from? Who's in charge of the sabotage to our supply chain?"

His mouth clamps shut. He doesn't have much information anyway; he's not the captain. The soldiers who've interrogated him seem to know he has friends more important than himself, though, convinced that he has details to share.

The Spaniard tsks and shakes his head with artificial pity. "As you like. But I can't receive authorization to release you without something to show for it." And then he nods to whoever is gripping him.

Knowing what's coming, he thrashes, but he's manacled and fettered and drugged and he can't evade the hand that shoves a rag over his face. There's no fighting it, though he tries—of course he does.

It doesn't matter. Everything goes black.

.o.O.o.

"Why are you protecting them? Your friends left you to die."

The voice is back. It's grating. It's cold. Not as cold as the cell he's in, and he shivers uncontrollably, knees drawn up to his chest.

"They'll find me."

The Spaniard's face is full of that artificial pity again. "They aren't even looking."

He doesn't answer; his stomach growls. He can't remember if they've fed him today, isn't sure when yesterday ended and today began. He doesn't know how many todays there have been since he was taken.

The soldier in charge of his interrogation hears the sound and tuts. Waves a hand to someone in the doorway. Magnanimously hands over a crust of moldy bread.

He wants to decline but he's starving and growing weaker by the day. In his mind, he hears Porthos reminding him there's no chance of escape if he can't even move, has to keep his strength up and be prepared at his first opportunity. He grabs the bread before the Spaniard can change his mind. It's vile, almost a taunt more than a kindness, but he eats it anyway.

"Now, be reasonable," the soldier says, spreading his hands. "Surely that's worth something. A morsel for a morsel. How many musketeers remained in Paris to guard the king?"

He doesn't answer, just barely refrains from licking the crumbs off his fingertips—he's not that desperate. Not yet. He will be soon.

The Spaniard sighs. "Why carry on this way? It's been three weeks. You were never supposed to be here so long. We can't afford to keep feeding you so often. Give me something I can turn over to my capitan so he'll order your release."

...Three weeks? He turns his head in a refusal to respond, but also to hide the sudden pain. How could it have been so long... he has no way of knowing the passing of time, but it can't have been that long, surely? At the same time, it feels like it's been even longer.

"They won't leave me here," he whispers to the cold, dripping walls, the stench of sweat and waste, the rats in the corner with glowing eyes.

His captor sighs, gestures.

The cursed rag descends over his mouth and nose yet again to flood his mind with the pungent fumes.

Darkness grows darker, and hope begins to fade.

.o.O.o.

"I'm done playing games." The Spaniard is in a foul temper today, accompanied by several other guards.

He knows that's not good. He wants to climb to his feet, to have some chance of defending himself, but he can't even sit up by now, lying half dead on the freezing floor with chattering teeth and growling belly. If the sweat dripping down his face is any indication, fever has started to set in.

There's questions, but he only half hears them. Questions about troop movements and supply chains and other things he isn't privy to just by virtue of being in Athos's inner circle. Even if he had the answers, he wouldn't give them up. Perhaps they thought keeping him mostly drugged for all this time would weaken his mind and they're probably right, but not so weak that he would ever betray his brothers and his country.

Perhaps they've decided if the cold and the hunger and the drugs won't do the trick, their fists and their boots will. The blows descend and everything hurts even worse, until merciful blackness descends once more.

.o.O.o.

"You're a strong one, I'll give you that. But surely you must be hungry by now?"

Hungry? No, he was hungry before. Now he's starving, ravenous, half-mad with the emptiness in his belly. He thinks he might even sell his soul for another moldy crust of bread, but of course he wouldn't really. Not his soul. Aramis wouldn't approve. Can't disappoint Aramis.

"They aren't coming for you," he's told again and again. He wants to keep doubting but it's getting harder.

How long has it been? Weeks? Months? He's lost count of how many times he's been drugged into blackness. For all he knows, it's been years. Everything's foggy. Everything hurts. And now he barely feels the cold. It's been so long, why haven't they come for him yet?

...Are they coming at all?

"We'll let you go," he's promised. "But first some information. Then we'll release you."

But he stays silent, until his captor loses patience, lashes out, grips his jaw.

"You weren't even supposed to be here this long," he's told again. "You were only taken as a means to bargain. An exchange. But when we sent word of your capture, and our hopes of a trade..." The Spaniard grins, cruel and cold. "They _declined_."

He feels like this is some kind of trap, deep down, but he's weak and sick and oh God he's so hungry, and he finally despairs. Maybe they had no choice. Maybe the Spaniards wanted to trade him for someone worth far more than he is. Maybe Athos was ordered to decline. _Maybe they abandoned him._

"Understand," his captor says, "that this underground prison is your life now. You will die here, today or years from now, forgotten and abandoned. Or... deny the so-called friends who left you to your fate, and help Spain end this bloody war. It's been two months, Frenchman. If they wanted you back, they would have come for you by now."

They haven't even brought out that vile rag and the awful drugs, but already his mind is starting to slip away without it. Abandoned...

A door thuds open so hard it cracks like a whip, like thunder, like his heart, but he barely hears it. Cheek resting on a cold, damp floor, he closes his eyes against the shouting and the steel. In the distance, everything soon goes quiet and then he's being lifted, sitting against something strong.

"D'Artagnan! Come on, pup, open yer eyes..."

"He's burning with fever," another voice growls, a cold hand pressed to his forehead. "Porthos, the chains."

Metal clinks, his wrists feel lighter. He's pulled up the rest of the way from the freezing stone, held tightly against something solid and comforting. _Porthos_ , his mind supplies. His eyes blink and flutter, seeing a worried face gazing back at him. _Aramis._

"Th'y said y' left me," he manages to say. "Be'n two months..."

"You've been missing for two weeks," Aramis corrects. "Athos has been out of his mind. There was no word... we thought you'd been killed."

Porthos was cursing. "Talk later, escape now."

He tries to move his feet, but two months or two weeks, he only remembers a few sorry excuses for food and he collapses instead, right into Porthos's waiting arms. His Gascon stubbornness urges him to walk out of there on his own power, but everything's fading again and he can't protest as his brother carries him out of that wretched cell.

"You're safe now," Aramis offers from somewhere directly at his side. A hand squeezes his. "You're safe, d'Artagnan."

He's slipping from consciousness, but he's safe. D'Artagnan thinks his lips are pulling into an exhausted smile.

"Y' came to fin' me..."

The supporting arms squeeze tighter.

"Aways, pup. Always."


	5. #10. Trail of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an alternate version of how S1 episode 2 could have gone instead ^_^ Sorry, Athos...

**10\. Trail of Blood - D'Artagnan was supposed to earn Vadim's trust. But really, a mass breakout and prisoner riot culminating in d'Artagnan taking Athos hostage is a little much to ask for.**

* * *

" _I'm going to check on d'Artagnan."_

Athos had expected the young recruit to be sitting in a jail cell with Vadim. He'd expected he would have to either avoid being seen by Vadim or else pretend to have no interest in d'Artagnan, to keep their cover of having abandoned the boy to his fate. He had expected maybe even some play-acting of harsh words between them while he determined for himself that the Chatelet guards—who after all hadn't been in on this plot—hadn't actually roughed him up too badly.

What Athos had _not_ been expecting was the sudden surge of escaping prisoners as the guard at the door let him in, or to be overwhelmed in a matter of seconds by the horde.

Both Athos and the guard were seized and dragged inside and to the ground before he was even aware of what exactly had grabbed him. Athos's eyes widened as he registered the mob, as well as Vadim's cruelly pleased expression. _Merde._

Athos scrambled for his pistol, but two prisoners were holding his arms while several more had him divested of every weapon he had in seconds, piranha picking a slab of meat down to bone. Beside him, the guard was similarly disarmed. _Have to get d'Artagnan out of here_ , Athos barely had time to think before his gaze connected with the lad in question to see an expression of horror looking back at him.

A second later, even that was driven from his mind by the sound of a gunshot and the immediate agony following after. Athos shouted in both surprise and pain, looking down to see, as though in slow motion, the well of blood pooling up from a smoking hole in his upper thigh. It seemed one of the prisoners had shot him with his own pistol.

_Merde._

"Grab them!" Vadim shouted to d'Artagnan as more pistol shots cracked through the air, this time from the guards outside now trying to contain the escaping prisoners. Both of them dove forward, bowling other escapees out of their way as Vadim yanked the guard up and to his feet, looping the chain of his manacles around the unfortunate man's throat and holding him close as a shield.

A second later Athos found himself also hauled off the ground, choking back a hiss at the stabbing pain in his leg. Athos saw a flicker of apology in d'Artagnan's eyes but of course he had to stay in character no matter where this led. All too soon, Athos was pressed back against d'Artagnan with cold metal cutting into his throat from his friend's chains.

"Vadim, there's no way out this way!" d'Artagnan shouted, forcing Athos forward several paces until he was in the doorway, his predicament now clearly visible to the others fighting in the courtyard.

A clever move, Athos thought with approval, catching Aramis's eyes for the briefest of seconds before d'Artagnan pulled him back inside again out of the line of fire.

"Don't shoot!" he heard Aramis bellowing. "There's a musketeer in there!"

The warning came too late; another crack echoed in the enclosed stone chamber, just as Vadim had been shoving his way forward to see for himself. The guard serving as his shield performed his intended function, jolting with a gurgling cry as he took the bullet that would have otherwise killed Vadim. The guard dropped, lifeless body dumped carelessly from Vadim's arms.

Athos felt d'Artagnan pull him in tighter, either in nerves or reassurance.

"Now what do we do?" the boy yelled to Vadim over the continuing chaos.

Vadim gritted his teeth, skewering Athos with a furious glare before jerking his head back over his shoulders and gesturing to d'Artagnan. "Bring him," he barked. "And follow me!"

Every step was agony on Athos's leg, still bleeding profusely. He felt the hot blood dripping down his leg, spotting the ground, and tried not to make any sound or hint at his pain, loath to give Vadim that satisfaction. There was no time to protest, at any rate, dragged along with the two escapees as Vadim grabbed a torch from a wall sconce and led the way farther back past the row of cells, past the deeper, older dungeons. Athos frowned, baffled despite his perilous situation. Where could Vadim possibly be leading them?

"Do you know where you're going?" d'Artagnan demanded as they reached a dead end.

"If you're going to tag along, then tag along," Vadim returned, seemingly unconcerned. He held the torch aloft, looking over the plain rock wall. "Otherwise, turn back."

D'Artagnan didn't move, so neither could Athos, who really wanted nothing more than to pass out at the moment. The fire in his leg was only intensifying from being forced to stand and half-run on it. He could almost feel d'Artagnan wavering. Athos frowned. They couldn't stop now, no matter the danger to either of them.

"I told Treville you would never amount to a musketeer," he seethed, thrashing against the boy in hopes of reminding him they still had a job to do.

It seemed to do the trick as d'Artagnan tightened his grip and wrestled Athos back against him. "Shut up!" he snapped with clear vitriol. "None of this would be happening if you hadn't turned your back on me! One more word and I'll put a bullet in your head."

A fairly useless threat when he hadn't grabbed a pistol, Athos thought with droll amusement, but he stayed silent as though d'Artagnan had won. By now Vadim had found what he was looking for, a rock that seemed no different from the others in the wall, and pressed it. The rock slid back into a hidden recess and a passage opened before them. Interesting.

Vadim smirked and nodded to the pair.

"We'll take him a little further," he said. "Just in case."

But Aramis and Porthos had seen him be taken and would be following them; they would have no idea where to go after this point. Thinking quickly, Athos reached down to the bullet wound in his thigh and, despite the pain, squeezed his hand around it. It was more than he could stand, his leg buckling from under him. Athos gasped and sagged, nearly taking d'Artagnan down with him.

"No you don't," d'Artagnan snarled, hoisting him back up again and shoving him towards the wall.

Athos reached out to catch himself, bloody hand marking the stone that Vadim had pressed. He really _would_ have to commend d'Artagnan to Treville, if any of them made it out of this: the boy was quick on his feet and seemed more than capable of picking up on Athos's ideas with only the slightest of cues. With the way now marked, Athos permitted himself to be forced along into the passage as the wall closed in again behind them.

They continued on at a near frantic pace, none of the three speaking, until Athos could go no further. Every step burned like flames licking his leg and his vision was growing dark at the corners from the blood loss. But at least he'd left a clear trail, scarlet droplets illuminating the path to find him. Athos felt himself tumbling to the ground and heard the rattle of chains as d'Artagnan released him.

"He's finished," the boy snorted scathingly. "Good riddance."

"You could always kill him," Vadim suggested. There was an excitement in his voice, but also a shrewdness, clearly waiting to see what d'Artagnan would do. A obvious test. D'Artagnan would have to sell it in order to convince him...

D'Artagnan's face was blurred in Athos's waning consciousness as he stood over the fallen musketeer. "But I like this even better," d'Artagnan replied, an unsettlingly cold edge to the words. He squatted down in front of Athos and grabbed his jaw. "I want to be the last thing you see," he hissed. "Turning my back on you, like you did to me. You'll bleed out soon, but not before sitting here, alone in the pitch dark, knowing nobody's ever going to find you." D'Artagnan laughed. "It might even be hours yet. Enjoy the agony, Athos."

Vadim raised a brow. "Rather harsh?"

"If _you_ were the one he betrayed," d'Artagnan said, rising back up to his feet, "you'd know he deserves it, or worse."

Vadim regarded him for a long second, and Athos knew the performance was being judged. He held his breath. Both of their fates would be decided on whether or not Vadim believed d'Artagnan.

Finally, Vadim smiled. "I'm sure he does. Leave him, then."

Two pairs of boots receded from Athos's view, taking the light away with them. His eyes fell closed, thinking again that he would have to tell Treville that d'Artagnan was more than worthy to wear the pauldron of a musketeer, the second the King granted him a commission. Assuming he really _didn't_ bleed out here, that was...

In the distance, he thought he heard the grating of stone, and then Porthos's bellowing voice calling for him. Ah, good.

Athos closed his eyes, knowing he was in good hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep these as close to ~1500 words as possible, so there wasn't enough time for the caretaking, but off-screen his brothers DO find him and get him back to safety and patched up and they all live to fight another day! ^_^


	6. #12. Broken Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during toddler!dauphin era but le king is still around. Basically so I can write protective but discreet uncle musketeers XD

**#12: Broken Bone - For a really good man, there are some things you don't even question when it comes to your best friend in all the world. You'll protect their secrets. You'll protect their sons. Porthos is such a man.**

* * *

Porthos wasn't a huge fan of babysitting duty, though it was vastly preferable to standing at attention in the hot sun for hours on end, waiting to make an impression on visiting dignitaries. At least he could still move about. Besides, it was the Queen. Porthos was only too happy to stand watch from across the lawn, conversing with his brothers with one eye on them and one on their precious charges as they enjoyed the fresh morning air.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan growled under his breath after asking the musketeer the same question twice, only to find him not listening.

Of course he wasn't listening, Porthos thought with a snort. With the Queen and the Dauphin only just across the lawn, how could Aramis have anything else on his mind?

When the marksman didn't respond, Porthos took it upon himself to give him a good kick.

"Ow!" Aramis gasped, whirling towards him with a glower. "What was that for?"

"Put yer eyes back in yer head," Porthos muttered from the side of his mouth, glancing around at the maidservants and other palace staff milling about. "Unless you want people to talk."

"And you don't want people to talk," d'Artagnan added helpfully. "Maybe a sparring match would bring you back to earth?"

Aramis huffed with a short roll of his eyes, but he did turn his attention back towards them. A crooked grin poked across his face. "Seems to me the last time we sparred, my good Gascon, you were sorely defeated."

"Well then," d'Artagnan replied, also grinning as he drew his sword, "it sounds like it's time for a rematch. Unless you're afraid."

Porthos chuckled and stepped back from the pair with his hands up to show he was going to leave it between the two of them. He glanced over his shoulder again at the Queen. The first clang of steel on steel from their swords had her jumping slightly in surprise, but it was a fond look she cast towards the dueling pair. Porthos shook his head. Honestly, she and Aramis were meant for each other—or would have been, if not for the inconvenient fact that she wasn't a woman, she was the _Queen,_ and Louis would have all their heads.

His eyes dropped to little Louis next, toddling about with the same happy-go-lucky nature as his father. In spite of the heat and his boredom, Porthos found his face softening into a warm smile at the little tyke.

The smile vanished a second later at the first sound of crashing footsteps emerging from the bordering woods. Porthos barely had time to wonder what was happening before a pack of ruffians burst through the trees. The weapons they wielded spoke nothing but malice towards the Queen and Dauphin.

" _Aramis_!" Porthos bellowed, taking off at a full sprint towards Anne, who scooped Louis up in her arms and backed away with wide, frightened eyes.

There was no time to draw a weapon, not with the ugly fellow who'd broken off from the others raising a wicked looking cudgel in preparation to strike them both.

"Death to the monarchy!" the man shouted.

Everything slowed down. Somewhere behind him, Porthos heard Aramis yelling in desperation, but most of the attackers had veered towards the other musketeers to block them from coming to the Queen's aid. Porthos's eyes tracked the raised weapon, saw it start to arch down, saw Anne twist her body to more fully cover little Louis. He didn't stop to think. Raising an arm, the musketeer leaped in between the Queen and her attacker.

The crunch was so loud that Porthos could hear it over his own agonized shouts as the cudgel missed its intended target and struck Porthos's upraised arm instead. He felt the shatter of bone, heard the shrieking of the toddler prince, saw the shock and rage of the attacker. Porthos dropped his arm with a gasp, now useless to him. There was no way he could draw his schiavona, and the few short seconds he had before the attacker recovered from the deflected blow weren't enough for him to get to his pistols left-handed.

Instead, ignoring the throbs of pain shooting down his arm, Porthos pulled his left hand back into a fist and smashed it into the man's face. He was rewarded with another shout of both pain and surprise, though it wasn't enough to put the man down. Whoever these people were, Porthos thought with gritted teeth, they were determined and probably fanatical, and that was a bad combination.

Young Louis was still screaming behind him; Porthos considered shouting for Anne to take him and run for the palace, but if any of the others were able to evade Aramis and d'Artagnan in pursuit then she would be unprotected. Tightening his jaw, Porthos crouched slightly, trading glowers with the man intent on killing his Queen.

"Get out of the way," the attacker hissed.

Porthos barked a short laugh; like _that_ was going to happen. "Attackin' a woman and a child," he snorted. "How brave. Try _me_ on for size."

With a snarl, the man wielded the cudgel once more. Porthos watched it swing through the air, once again shooting his hand up to meet it. This time, he caught it before the attacker could put much weight into the blow. Yanking with all his might, Porthos tore the weapon free of the man's grip. Deftly, he flipped the cudgel to grasp it by the handle, then the musketeer swung it with all his considerable force.

Anne screamed as blood sprayed them both, but the attacker went down and would never be getting back up. Porthos skewered his dead body with a glare but spared only a second before spinning to plant himself between the royals and the rest of the mob. It seemed they had believed only one would be needed to dispatch the Queen and Louis; the others were focused on preventing the musketeers from coming to their aid, but d'Artagnan and Aramis were more than a match for them even outnumbered three to one. Before Porthos could even consider the choice between protecting the Queen or assisting to finish them off, Aramis was yanking his sword out of the last one and then sprinting towards them with utter fear in his eyes.

"Your Majesty!" he cried, stumbling to a halt in front of them as Porthos stepped aside to show him they were unhurt.

Forgetting, of course, that his bulk hadn't prevented _all_ of the blood spray from reaching her. Aramis gasped.

"You're hurt?" he demanded, already reaching up to her cheek before Porthos could remind him that wasn't exactly proper.

Not that it mattered too much, he realized, looking around to see the rest of the courtiers and staff had already fled.

"I got 'im," Porthos assured his friend in a low voice, watching Aramis swallow back emotions that couldn't safely be expressed out loud. "Aramis... Aramis, they're alright."

"Thanks to my brave musketeers," Anne said, understandably shaky but as regal as ever. "Porthos saved our lives." She gave him a watery smile, twisting so that a still whimpering Louis could peek up at him from his mother's hip. "Say thank you."

Porthos smiled as much as he could at the muttered words from the toddler prince, but his arm was throbbing with increasing fervor as adrenaline drained away. When Aramis gratefully grasped his arm, Porthos couldn't stop from gasping aloud at the stabbing pain. Aramis's eyes widened, as did the Queen's.

"You've been wounded!" she protested, twisting to see who was nearby. "The physician- someone..."

"I'll go," d'Artagnan volunteered, extending a hand to the Queen and Dauphin. "Your Majesty, you should get back to the palace. I'll escort you."

Porthos watched as the three retreated swiftly, then let out a low whistle as he gazed out at the number of bodies littering the royal lawn. "Who were these-"

"Porthos."

Aramis's face was drawn, almost haunted, as he carefully took Porthos's good arm in his hand. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely. "Thank you..."

Despite the pain of his broken arm, Porthos softened. "You know I'd protect 'em with my life," he said simply.

It was their duty, of course, as musketeers. But it was more than that, and they both knew it. Not only had Anne repeatedly earned the respect and loyalty of "her brave musketeers", but... it was _Anne_. And little Louis... Porthos could no more let anything happen to him than he could Aramis. He would die first, to protect the son of his best friend in all the world.

None of this could be said, though, not out loud. Aramis nodded nonetheless. He understood. He always did.

That was family for you.


	7. #14. Branding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate version of the end of S2 (Trial and Punishment) where Rochefort is a bigger jerk (if that's possible). Also, in this version, BBC!Milady has the brand that book!Milady was punished with - in the book, that's what Athos discovered to convince him she really was a criminal.

**#14: Branding - _"You've seen what he's capable of. Aramis is at his mercy."_ And being at Rochefort's mercy is a bad place to be when you're in love with the woman of his obsession. Aramis doesn't escape unscathed. S2E10 alternate.**

**Torture TW**

* * *

Aramis tensed as he heard the door creak open behind him. His hands clenched into fists, subtly straining at the long chains securing his wrists to the wall—as though maybe _this_ time they would give out.

They didn't.

"So," Rochefort's sickly smooth voice spoke up from the doorway, followed by multiple pairs of footsteps. "You have been convicted of high treason. You are a traitor, Aramis. And eventually, you will die like one."

"Eventually?" he couldn't help but ask through gritted teeth. Aramis had expected this. Why kill him quickly when Rochefort held all the cards? Aramis had dared to touch, to _love_ , the object of Rochefort's obsession. A swift, merciful death had never been on the table. Slowly, Aramis turned on the spot with his chin raised high.

Rochefort was smiling, watching Aramis with that intense, chilling stare. It unnerved the musketeer, though not as much as the long metal rod in his hands, topped with a broad, flat symbol that glowed fire-white.

Aramis felt his eyes widen despite his intention to not react to whatever tortures were in store for him, and he took an involuntary step back. This seemed to be the cue the other soldiers had been waiting for, the _four_ that had accompanied Rochefort in. They surged in towards him. Fighting back was an instinct driven in too fully for Aramis to resist, throwing a rattling punch to one and a kick to another. Without weapons, chained in place, and outnumbered, Aramis could do no more as they flung him against the wall then dragged him to the ground.

"Hold him there," Rochefort said, calm and content, slowly stepping closer.

"You're nothing but a _snake_ , Rochefort," Aramis snapped, twisting against the hands that held him. The chains at his wrists weren't quite long enough to reach the floor, leaving them crossed over his head when they kicked him flat onto his back. Again, Aramis tried to kick his way back up, but with four guards, it was easy for them to hold him down, one on each limb. One of the soldiers jerked his doublet open, ripping it and Aramis's shirt down off of his shoulder.

"The king will see it in the end!" Aramis bit out, desperately trying to break their hold on him to no avail. His breaths came in fast, panicked gasps as he watched the brand coming closer and closer to his skin. "And the queen?" He laughed harshly, knowing what would hurt his captor the most. "She'll never love you."

Rochefort smiled down at him but there was rage and insanity in his gaze. "Hold him down," he instructed the guards again.

Aramis struggled as the grips on his arms and legs tightened, until he saw Rochefort's smile widen. He was _enjoying_ this, smug bastard, he _wanted_ the show, the helplessness, the useless struggle. Aramis would not give him that. He fell still against the freezing stone floor, looking up at the brand that would mark him a criminal. The musketeer swallowed back defeat. It wouldn't matter... he wouldn't live long enough for anyone else to see it. As well as he was able, Aramis lifted his chin again, meeting Rochefort's amused eyes.

The Comte's smile slid somewhat at the show of defiance. Without a word, he thrust the brand down into the musketeer's skin, searing the mark into Aramis's chest below his collarbone.

Aramis had wanted to remain stoically silent but the scream was ripped from his throat regardless. He thrashed and bucked against his captors, seeing and feeling and smelling the flesh blister and burn. His stomach turned and he thought he would pass out from the pain of it and oh god surely it had to stop soon, but Rochefort didn't remove the brand. He only pushed it more fiercely down, leaning his weight into it until Aramis was blinded by tears and agony and his whole body felt like it was on fire.

After an eternity, the pressure was removed, but the heat remained. Aramis choked on more frantic breaths, looking down at his chest to be met with the sight of the mangled, blistered form of the fleur-de-lis. Not as the proud mark of a musketeer, but as the shameful brand of a traitor.

"Hmm," Rochefort murmured from somewhere above him, and Aramis knew he was being shrewdly studied. "You know... I don't believe the Queen will think much of this look on you."

The men holding him down released his arms and legs but Aramis didn't try to move other than to curl in himself. Even that didn't work, the chains at his hands too short to give him enough leeway. The stench of burned skin filled his nostrils, choking the musketeer until he released a strangled sob. It echoed along with the slamming of the door and the cold promise that Rochefort would be back before too long. Aramis closed his eyes, praying only to be released—one way or another.

.o.O.o.

As it turned out, the way he was released was _not_ by death, but by Milady. Aramis remembered little of the actual escape, beyond his terror at hearing the door open again, the shock at seeing _her_ there instead of Rochefort come to torture him some more. Milady had paused for a moment, eyebrow arching gracefully up at the sight of his burn.

"It seems we're a matched set, then," she said with only the smallest of sneers, no true vitriol in her voice but also no pity.

Aramis only glowered at her, not bothering to protest that they were nothing alike, that unlike him, _her_ crimes had been real. But he said nothing, because was it even true? He had endangered the queen, his brothers, Constance, so much blood on his hands because he had loved a woman he was not permitted to love. Despite how fiercely the fabric of his shirt hurt the fresh burn, he fastened his doublet tightly to hide the mark.

They didn't speak again after that, and Aramis was relieved to finally find himself back among his brothers. Even the normally stoic Athos immediately pulled him closer, a relieved kiss on his cheek speaking to just how close they had all come to losing everything, and still could.

"Come here," Porthos beamed, his own face an open book of delight compared to Athos's measured solemnity.

Aramis smiled wanly and leaned in to his friend but immediately gasped when the hug was too enthusiastic for his abused chest to handle. Porthos froze, then carefully backed up a bit, though he didn't let go of Aramis.

"You're hurt," he seethed. "Aramis? What did he do? What is it?"

"I wouldn't show them, if I were you," Milady spoke up, perching herself smugly on a nearby chair. "Athos might take it into his mind to have you hanged."

Aramis shot a glare in her direction, as did Porthos and d'Artagnan, but Athos turned pale and was immediately at Aramis's side—of course he would now know exactly what had happened.

"Let me see it," he murmured, voice both tremulous and gentle, as he gingerly peeled Aramis's shirt away to reveal the ugly burn. The room fell silent.

Aramis swallowed and looked away. "He..." Trailing off helplessly, Aramis shook his head. What words could be spoken to describe his horror, his shame? "If we make it out of this, don't tell An- the Queen," he whispered. "She would..."

"She would know how brave you are," Constance spoke up, guiding Athos aside so she could stand in front of Aramis instead, looking up at him in that earnest way of hers. "She would be outraged at what was done to you, yes, but she would never see you differently for it, Aramis. None of us could."

"Constance is right," Treville said from his position by the door. Only the slightest tightening of his jaw revealed his own fury. "Rochefort is the traitor, not you, and we'll see to it that everyone knows that."

Aramis closed his eyes, grateful for their support, but painfully cognizant that their opinions of him might not be the ones that determined his fate. "It's a brand," he said hollowly. "This won't- I can't wash it off, I can't- I'll carry it forever. Even if the King were to grant a pardon, the mark will still be there. How can I be a musketeer if-"

"Aramis," Treville cut him off. "As long as I am your captain, you have a place in our regiment. You know that. And anyone who takes my place one day will know the same." His eyes flicked to Athos, who nodded solemnly.

"You _will_ get that pardon," the swordsman intoned. "And your friends will stand by you. You have our word."

"And I'll see Rochefort dead," Porthos spat out, clenching his fist.

"And I'll get your med kit," d'Artagnan offered as he eyed the burned skin. "You'll need to treat that. Wait here, I know where it is."

Aramis swallowed against the lump in his throat as his friends rallied around him. They would be lucky indeed to survive this intact, but he would be luckier still to count these men (and Constance) as his family.

As long as he had that, well... the rest would fall into place.


	8. #16. Forced to Beg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set post-series

**#16: Forced to Beg - Musketeers are a proud bunch, Gascons even more so. For his own life, d'Artagnan would rather die than beg for mercy. For Constance, on the other hand...**

* * *

D'Artagnan pulled up his horse with a tug on the reins and a click of his teeth. He surveyed the path they were on, quickly taking in the stream nearby, the young forest with a ready supply of kindling for a fire. This would do. He turned to Constance and raised a questioning brow.

"Would you rather press on for the next town?" he asked. "Find an inn?"

Constance pulled up her own horse and gave him a light smile. "Might as well save the coin. We may have no choice but to find an inn on another night. It's three days yet to Paris."

D'Artagnan nodded, content and delighted with life itself. He was starting to suspect that Athos sent him on these week-long errands intentionally, knowing his wife would accompany him, giving the pair plenty of time to bask in each other's company.

Leaning over to give Constance a peck on the cheek, d'Artagnan then slid off the horse and handed her the reins as she dismounted as well.

"I'll get a fire going," he said, already turning for the forest.

The musketeer took his time gathering smaller sticks for kindling, larger branches for fuel. A few yards off, he spotted a burst of color and headed closer to find a little patch of wildflowers. D'Artagnan smiled. Abandoning the wood, he reached down to pluck one from its tender stem to give to Constance.

" _D'Artagnan!_ Run-"

The scream drove all thoughts of flowers or fire from his mind, all rational thought save one: _Constance_! D'Artagnan's sword was already in his hand as he sprinted back to the clearing where he'd left her, then stumbled to a stop at the sight of a stranger with one hand over her mouth and the other holding a knife against her stomach.

"Ah ah," the man said, shaking his head with a pleased smirk. "Sword. Drop it."

D'Artagnan looked to either side, noting three more men closing in on him from both flanks. He seethed at having been taken off guard—what sort of musketeer was he, not to have spotted any company? The group of bandits were well armed, though, pistols pointed in his direction, but more importantly he couldn't even think of fighting them unless they let go of Constance. With no other avenue, d'Artagnan slowly dropped his sword. At the gesture of the other man, he held his arms up.

"What do you want?" he spat out. "You're making a mistake."

"That's what they all say," the man sighed. He nodded to the other bandits, who closed in on d'Artagnan. One by one, all of his weapons were found and removed.

Keeping his eyes on Constance, who tried to twist away from her captor, d'Artagnan could only hold still as his arms were then pulled behind his back and lashed together.

"Hold still, love," the bandit holding Constance warned her, pressing his lips to her temple. She writhed harder at that, snapping something into the hand over her mouth, but it only made him chuckle. "She's a feisty one. You're a lucky man, monsieur."

"You touch her again, and I'll kill you where you stand," d'Artagnan seethed, furiously shouldering aside the man who'd been trying to push him forward. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

The bandit raised an eyebrow, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Quite an arrogant man, for one," he tutted. "Musketeer by the look of that pauldron. Most importantly, a trespasser. See, we've claimed this stretch of woods. If you want to go through, you have to pay a toll. We'll be having the horses and everything in the bags, for one."

"Like _hell_ you will," d'Artagnan shouted, leaping towards the man, wanting nothing but to knock him away from his wife, but he was swiftly grabbed by the remaining group of bandits.

"Now see," the leader said, "that's just rude, when we've asked so nicely. And it's upped the price, I'm afraid."

"And I'll ask again, _what do you want_?"

The bandit nodded to the men holding d'Artagnan, who wrestled him down to his knees. Then he gestured one of them over, who pulled Constance away from him to hold tightly against himself instead. The leader stalked forward, standing over the musketeer.

"I want you," he said slowly, "to beg for mercy."

D'Artagnan barked in laughter. "I don't think so," he retorted with a cold smirk.

The leader shrugged and drew a pistol. He pointed it first at d'Artagnan, who only sneered up at him. He was a musketeer and he didn't beg, not for anything- then the pistol spun to point at Constance instead and d'Artagnan gasped, throwing himself desperately against the hands restraining him.

"No!" he cried. "Don't!"

"Oh, I think you can do better than that," the leader snorted. "Proud lad like you. I want some actual begging. Grovel a little. You might even kiss my boots. Depends how badly you want the little lady to survive."

"D'Artagnan, tell him to-" Constance was cut off again by a hand over her mouth.

The leader cocked the pistol, then smiled down at d'Artagnan expectantly.

He swallowed through a dry mouth. "Please," he whispered, looking at Constance. "Please, don't. Let her go."

"Mm. Not good enough."

"Please!" d'Artagnan cried. "Please. Monsieur, please... I'm begging you, don't hurt her. Please don't. I- I beg you."

The leader stuck one foot forward, grinning, and the hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders let go. The musketeer stared at him incredulously, but it appeared the man was serious. D'Artagnan was nearly vibrating with rage, face flushing with heat, but he couldn't let anything happen to Constance, not when the only thing standing between her and safety was his pride. It took everything he had, but slowly, d'Artagnan leaned over, trying not to fall on his face with his hands bound. Silently swearing death on every single man there, he set his lips disgustedly to the man's boot in a quick, angry kiss, and then swiftly straightened back up.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" the bandit asked cheerfully as the others snickered among themselves, ignoring d'Artagnan's silent fuming. "Very well, we'll consider the toll paid... for the little lady. Get him up, lads, we'll take him along as well."

"Wait!" Constance cried as she was released. She ran straight for the bandit and pummeled his arm with her fist. "Let him _go_!"

"Sorry, lass, as it turns out, I _do_ know who I'm dealing with. The musketeer's worth some money if France wants him back unharmed." He turned to the others and waved a hand. "Take everything."

"Not Constance," d'Artagnan quickly pressed, forcing himself to keep a clear head in spite of his fury. He looked at his wife. "Please... she's just a helpless woman. Leave her here, she can't do any harm to anyone."

The bandit patted d'Artagnan's cheek and grinned. "Only since you asked so nicely," he replied. "Now start walking."

Trading one last look with Constance, d'Artagnan had no choice but to let the bandits lead him away, along with all of their supplies, their horses, their weapons, leaving Constance behind with nothing in the growing twilight.

By the time they had walked for nearly half an hour by d'Artagnan's reckoning, night had fallen and the bandits finally stopped to make camp. The musketeer found himself shoved roughly to the ground at the base of a tree, hands released only long enough to be pulled around the trunk behind him and refastened, while the other men started a fire. One of them started walking a wide circle around the campsite, presumably to watch the perimeter. D'Artagnan smiled... And waited.

The guard never came back.

Seconds later, a pistol shot cracked out in the darkness and one of the other bandits slumped over in his seat in the fire. Now there was only the leader and one other, both of whom leaped to their feet with swords drawn.

"Hugo!" the leader shouted.

A furious figure stormed into the camp, but it wasn't the lookout. Constance had taken her first victim's sword, pointing it at the two with stony intensity as she strode straight up to the fire and swung with a shout. One of the men leaped forward to meet the attack, the swords clashing over the flames to scatter sparks up into the air. The bandit leader, on the other hand, spun around and made a beeline for d'Artagnan.

The musketeer smirked back at him and jumped to his feet as he finally worked his wrists free, just in time to duck under the bandit's sword and level a punch to his gut that would have made Porthos proud.

"Told you you had no idea who you were dealing with," d'Artagnan growled as he grabbed the man by the collar and slammed his skull into the tree. "You might have known you had a musketeer. But you never figured on Constance." Slamming the man into the tree once again, d'Artagnan dropped the now lifeless body to the ground and grabbed the fallen sword. He turned in time to see his wife driving the final bandit back towards the fire, shrieking with each of her strikes.

"Give! Me! Back! My! _Husband_!"

D'Artagnan had one brief second of utterly divine pleasure at the look of extraordinary shock on the man's face before the bandit tripped over the pile of firewood, straight into the fire. He only had time for one scream of pain before Constance hefted her sword in a two handed grip and plunged it through his middle, snuffing him out.

The musketeer grimaced at the smell of burning flesh and hurried over to drag the body out of the flames.

"Constance," he gasped, dropping the stolen sword to cup her face and tilt it towards the firelight, looking for any signs of injury. Seeing none, d'Artagnan pulled her in tightly against him, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead and closing his eyes.

"I'm alright," she assured him, though made no move to press away. Constance nestled in closer to him. "I'm alright, d'Artagnan. Did they hurt you?"

He shook his head against hers. "Just with the thought of losing you," he whispered.

"Your helpless woman?" Her voice was light and teasing, and when d'Artagnan lifted his head to look at her, her eyes were dancing.

With a soft snort of laughter, d'Artagnan carefully brushed his thumb over her cheek, then leaned in to hold her against him some more. "You, madame," he whispered, dusting her hair with kisses. "Have never been helpless a day in your life."

A hand reached up to cup his face and Constance smiled up at him through her lashes. "There's nothing you wouldn't do for me, is there."

It wasn't spoken as a question, and it _wasn't_ a question.

Nothing. Beg, fight, die, live. There was absolutely nothing d'Artagnan wouldn't do.


	9. #18. Panic Attacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in season 2.

**#18. Athos isn't given to panic. But despite appearances sometimes, he does still feel, and to have something to lose is to know fear. Athos has a great deal to lose.**

* * *

Athos sat up with a gasp, chest heaving as he flung himself off the bedroll, nearly landing in the small campfire. Sharp cries ripped themselves from his throat with every exhalation, his inhalations nothing but wheezing gulps for air. There was motion all around him, groggy and disoriented shouts and questions, but Athos ignored all of this. He wound up on his hands and knees, leaning away from the fire and his bedroll, and emptied his stomach. When he closed his eyes against the remembered horrors, they only stood out clearer.

"Athos!" someone was shouting, hands gripping his shoulders. "Athos?"

"I'm sorry!" he choked out, the same words he'd been repeating over and over again to the specters hovering above his sleeping form, demanding his penance with cold faces and blame-filled eyes. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry!"

"What? Why are you sorr- Athos, you were dreaming!"

The words barely registered, the sharp voice only making Athos more desperate to get away. He knocked the hands away and lumbered to his feet. With no clear direction in mind, Athos stumbled away from the fire and the voices and the questions, not stopping until his feet splashed into water and he tripped to his knees on the soggy bank.

Alone, Athos bowed his head until he felt the freezing water lapping against his hair. He reached shaky hands up, gripping the wet locks, and gave in to the wracking sobs.

The visions just wouldn't go away... d'Artagnan's lifeless body... Porthos's hate filled eyes... Aramis's tortured form... How dare he have had the audacity to think this circle of friends was really his to keep? He would bring death and destruction to all of them just as he had his own family, a curse upon everyone closest to him. They would all fall in the end, and blame him, scorn him, hate him, and rightly so, and he would pay for his sins by watching his brothers die in torment and fear, and- oh God, their screams, how they echoed in his head, until Athos wanted to scream as well, just to drown out the sounds of his brothers' agony.

For a moment, Athos stayed hunched over where he was, until the frigid temperatures of the water and surrounding air started to soak into his brain. There was nothing like a bucket of freezing water to bring him back to his senses, and gradually the familiar feeling guided Athos to reality once more. He took several gulping breaths and sat back on his haunches, staring out into the black night with tremors still racing through his body.

"That was... unexpected," a voice spoke up softly from behind him.

Athos went rigid, listening as careful footsteps approached. He wanted to snap at Aramis to go away and leave him alone, but at the same time he couldn't bear the thought of the marksman leaving his sight now that he was there. Jaw clenched, Athos didn't speak as his friend slowly sat down close beside him.

"You certainly know how to keep a musketeer on his toes while on sentry duty," Aramis went on lightly. "I thought we were under attack and I'd missed them somehow. Gave the others a bit of a shock, too."

Athos remained silent, rubbing his face in his hands. Between the water and Aramis's calming presence, realization was dawning quickly at what a fool he must have made of himself.

"Sorry," he finally muttered gruffly.

"Yes, you mentioned that," Aramis said, pulling a piece of river grass to chew thoughtfully on the end, not looking at Athos or crowding him out—just being there. After a moment, he added, "We've all had them, you know."

Athos cursed and twisted away, splashing water on the back of his neck to help wash away the sweat soaking his body. He did know. Every so often, he'd even been the one in Aramis's position now, a silent, grounded presence for one of his brothers after the nightmares took hold. It was different, being on the receiving end.

"Do you want to talk about-"

"No."

Aramis nodded, not pushing. Again, Athos swore and looked out over the water.

"You were all dead," he murmured. "Brutally. Cruelly. Because of me. You- you blamed me, rightfully. And I was..."

"Left here on your own with nothing but guilt for company?" Aramis finished for him with another easy nod. "I know that one."

"It was my f-" Athos couldn't finish, throat closing up so suddenly that he jerked back in desperation for air. It wouldn't come, lungs spasming as they clutched at whatever oxygen they could get and then Athos was wheezing.

"Breathe, my friend," Aramis spoke up, turning to him at last. "Slowly... that's it... we're not dead yet. Not tonight. And not by your doing."

"I couldn't stop them-" Athos choked as his entire body shuddered. "I-"

"Shh, breathe first, talk second. Listen to your medic."

Frantically, Athos nodded. Aramis set his hands on Athos's shoulders and started with an exaggeratedly slow, deep breath. The swordsman tried to follow the breathing pattern, finally feeling himself start to steady out.

"I'm sorry, Aramis," he murmured again, not meeting his friend's eyes.

Aramis only sighed. "For what specifically? Because I have a suspicion you don't have to be."

"I sent you and Porthos to cut off the vicomte's men from the back," Athos blurted out, memories of their nearly failed mission blending with memories of the nightmare plaguing him. "I made that call. I didn't know they'd set a trap of their own."

"No, I imagine that was their general idea," Aramis returned lightly as he reclaimed his seat at Athos's side. The marksman sobered when Athos shot him a glare. "Is that what brought this on? Might I remind you that both Porthos and I are just fine? You got to us in time, not a scratch—well, only a few scratches, such is the life of a musketeer—on either of us. Any of us would have made the same call, Athos. Your mind doesn't deserve to torture itself over it."

Athos sighed again. He knew the burdens of leadership meant shouldering the weight of mistakes, accepted that as part of his duty to king, country, and garrison. But between the near miss today, the presence of Milady in his life reminding him of all his past mistakes, the constant fear that Aramis would be found out and taken from them for his love for the queen...

Beside him, Aramis quirked a smile his way. "This is where you say, 'you're right, Aramis.'"

Rolling his eyes in his friend's direction, Athos huffed lightly.

"You're right, Aramis," he intoned with dutiful sarcasm.

"Because you always are, Aramis," the marksman prompted, grinning wider.

"I hardly think so."

"You wound me."

Athos shook his head, but the remaining specters had been chased away. His heart was still heavy, but that was more or less his natural state. A heavy heart, he could contend with, so long as the panic had receded and he had his friends at his side. A hand fell on his shoulder and Athos looked to see Aramis's smile covering a more serious concern in his eyes.

"You with me?" Aramis asked.

As though it was ever a question.

Athos nodded, returning the gesture. "Thank you, my friend," he said softly.

As long as they were at his side, they would remain united. And anyone or anything who tried to threaten that, well... the four brothers would deal with that as they always had.

Together.


	10. #20. Lost

**#20: Lost - Porthos finds himself far from home, far from his friends, far from... well... anything. Without medical attention, it's doubtful he'll make it back on his own. But he's betting on his brothers.**

* * *

Porthos didn't want to say that he was in a bad spot, but, well, he was in a bad spot.

Slowly, painfully, he managed to drag himself up the bank from the river, using his forearms to heave himself away from the water's edge. On semi-dry land at last, the musketeer rolled over and collapsed onto his back with a sharp hiss of pain. Porthos didn't dare look down at his leg. He didn't want to see it. Bones belonged _inside_ bodies, not sticking out of them. Just like he didn't belong in a raging river getting slammed into rocks and swept away from his friends, finally getting knocked unconscious and spat back out onto the river bank who knew how far away.

Porthos peeled his head up, glowering briefly at the dead body which had been similarly washed up with him. At least the would-be assassin was dead and the king was safe. So if Porthos died out here, well, at least it wasn't for nothing.

Panting, the musketeer laid back down again and tried to calm his frantic mind. He imagined his brothers and how they would deal with the situation. Aramis would mask any worry with humor and dry wit. Athos would be stoic and glowering and not seem affected in the slightest. D'Artagnan—well, he'd be so determined to get back that it probably wouldn't even occur to him that he might not.

There was a real chance Porthos wasn't getting out of this, though. Steeling himself, the musketeer pushed himself painfully to a sitting position to take stock of his situation.

He had no idea where he was. His leg was broken, which meant hiking back up-river until he reached the place he'd fallen in was out of the question. He'd gone into the river with the assassin with nothing but what he had on him, which meant no food or blankets or supplies. The sun was already starting to dip towards the tree line, which meant it would be dark soon—and with the dark would come the cold. He was soaking wet and shivering, so once the temperature dropped, hypothermia would probably kill him before anything else. His brothers would _want_ to come looking for him, of course, but their main duty would be to get Louis back to safety, and they would have no way of knowing whether he was alive to even bother with a search.

Yeah, this wasn't good.

"Keep yer head, Porthos," the soldier muttered to himself, and felt a little better for having done so. He just needed to stay relatively calm and do whatever he had to to survive.

First things first.

"Fire," Porthos murmured, shivering again. He glanced at the woods surrounding the river; provided he could get himself over there, he'd have an ample supply of firewood. His parrying dagger was still tucked away at his back, which he could use with the flint he always carried to start a fire. At least that way, he could get his wet clothes to dry and hopefully avoid freezing to death overnight. He needed shelter but without any supplies and dragging around a broken leg, building one was out of the question. There was a rocky outcropping not far away where the woods dropped down suddenly to the river bank; maybe if he could tuck himself in there, out of the wind...

Taking several bracing breaths, Porthos forced himself to roll up onto his good knee, gritting his teeth against the absolute agony of his broken leg. Probably he would have to at least wrap that, otherwise Aramis would kill him when they found him. If they found him. But first, he needed to get warm. With two more forceful exhalations, the musketeer heaved himself up to his feet, balancing all his weight on one leg. He needed a staff or a crutch or something... he'd be on the lookout while gathering wood for a fire. Without one, limping towards the tree line was utter torture and Porthos was gasping for breath by the time he made it to the first young tree and grabbed it for support.

"Firewood," he choked out, trying to force himself to focus on _nothing_ but his current task. "Firewood- oh _shit_ , that hurts... firewood..."

It took everything he had to let go of the tree and reach down for some of the dried kindling already provided for him on the leafy floor. The last thing he wanted was to have to make several of these trips, but he needed one hand free to grab onto nearby branches so he didn't topple over, and he had nothing to use as a sack for the wood. Eventually, Porthos made his painful way over to the edge of the bank so he could drop the kindling down in front of the outcropping he would use as a shelter, then tossed several larger branches over as well.

With all of this accomplished, Porthos limped painfully back around and collapsed to the silty ground by the semi-protected outcropping. That task alone had nearly completely done him in... how was he going to survive until someone came to find him? There was plenty of water from the nearby river, but what would he do for food? What if any of his multiple lacerations from his trip down the river got infected? What if-

"Stop it," Porthos wheezed, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes from the pain of his throbbing limbs. "Not helpin'."

He shivered again, looking towards the west to notice with alarm that the sun was now almost entirely below the trees. He was getting colder and colder, and that was dangerous. Best make the fire now while he could still feel his fingers.

It wasn't the best of conditions to be starting fires under, but the musketeer managed. As cold as he was, Porthos shrugged out of his sopping wet doublet and shirt, propping them up on some driftwood to dry out. He'd put them back on once they weren't likely to make things worse. There was no way he'd be able to get his breeches off though, and at any rate Porthos was still trying not to look at his broken leg or the bone sticking out of it.

What would Aramis tell him to do? Porthos closed his eyes, willing himself to receive some medical wisdom from his friend. It was hard to think when everything hurt and he was freezing and miserable, but eventually he decided that he should at least cover and wrap the limb until someone could look at it who had a better idea of what they were dealing with. Reaching for his shirt again, Porthos tore off a long strip and steeled himself.

Oh lord, he shouldn't have looked. Bile rose in his throat and Porthos had to turn quickly to the side and lean over to empty his stomach. Great, and now that was going to be a nice addition to his makeshift campsite. Groaning, Porthos knocked some loose dirt over the sick and turned his attention back to the broken bone. He closed one eye and squinted the other so he could barely see the limb, carefully winding the wide strip of cloth somewhat loosely around his leg and trying not to throw up again. He tied it off well away from the protruding bone itself, then leaned back against the bank and gasped for fresh air as everything spun.

Okay... that was all he was going to be able to do for himself for the night. Porthos closed his eyes against the light-headedness. He was still shivering, but the fire was starting to warm his little sheltered cove somewhat; now that he was out of his wet things, he at least wasn't likely to freeze overnight as long as the temperature didn't drop too much.

Then he would have to decide what to do next. Porthos didn't much care for the idea of waiting to be rescued, but the alternative was to _walk_ to safety. If he _did_ leave, there were two choices: head back up the river, which was sure to get to the right place eventually but who knew how long it would take, or head into the woods and hope to find a road that would lead him quickly to a town where he could send word to the garrison. Porthos was a gambler by nature... and he knew how to read the odds. Those odds... they weren't good.

But he also knew a _good_ bet when he saw one, and Porthos let himself start to drift towards unconsciousness. He would stay where he was and bet on his brothers coming to find him.

The next time Porthos opened his eyes, the fire had mostly died down and the sun was rising once more. He was cold but not frozen—thank God he'd picked a mild day to engage in a raging river battle with an assassin. His shirt and doublet were mostly dry, though some morning dew was dotting the leather with tiny, misty beads. Painfully, Porthos forced himself upright, maneuvering his sore limbs this way and that. They had tightened up overnight. He'd have to be sure to get as much movement out of his good limbs as he could so nothing seized up. Porthos pulled on his clothes and added more wood to the fire to get it blazing again, then he sat back to again consider his next move.

He needed to get down to the river for some water, first of all. Food would be a concern as well, if the others weren't able to make good time heading this way. Porthos didn't have Aramis's skill at fishing bare-handed, but he could use a buckle and some twine to fashion a hook, maybe...

Porthos froze as the sound of cracking twigs and crunching leaves came drifting through the trees. That could either be a wild animal that thought he looked delicious, or some humans who would either be able to help him or an enemy to take advantage of his bad situation... He debated shouting to draw their attention if they _were_ human and risk the odds, but the decision was made for him when he heard his name.

"Porthos!"

"Porthos, where are you?"

"Anybody out there? Porthos!"

With a lump in his throat, weak with relief, Porthos waved a frantic arm.

"Here!" he shouted. "I'm down here!"

"Porthos?! Athos, he's here!"

"Hold on! We're coming!"

The musketeer smiled and sagged. Yes... he knew a good bet when he saw one.

And his brothers were always a good bet.


	11. #22. Poisoned

**#22: Poisoned - Aramis needs the antidote. Therefore his friends are going to get it for him, and woe be to anyone who gets in their way.**

* * *

"Just hang in there, Aramis. Athos an' d'Artagnan will be back soon."

The plea fell on deaf ears, as Porthos dabbed more sweat off his friend's brow. His jaw clenched tighter, eyes full of naked anxiety to see that despite all his reassurances and promises and urges to hold on, Aramis was getting worse.

"How is he?" a grim voice spoke from behind him.

Porthos twisted, giving Treville the barest of nods as the captain came to stand over Aramis's shoulder. He wasn't sure how to answer, not having enough experience with poisons and their effects. All he knew was what he saw, and that was that Aramis was obviously in agony and even if his eyes were open, he was nowhere near them.

"Worse," Porthos settled on gruffly. He swallowed. "If the others can't make Delacroix give up the antidote..."

Treville hummed an assent, followed by a short silence. "You know Athos," he added then. "He will be... persuasive."

Porthos knew that. He wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Athos's persuasion himself, had seen what the swordsman was capable of when truly enraged. Between his ice cold lethality and d'Artagnan spitting fire and untempered ferocity, Delacroix would be wise to give up the antidote to the poison he'd used on Aramis quickly.

But what if it wasn't quick enough? The villa was hours from Paris... what if Aramis couldn't hold on that long?

"What did 'e think he could gain from this?" Porthos growled, rinsing out the rag and carefully dabbing more sweat from Aramis's ashen brow. "Why would he poison Aramis? Don't make sense."

"Men like Delacroix rarely do," Treville replied. "I suspect he thought he would be able to bargain a favor from the famed musketeers in exchange. I'm sure he'll want some sort of trade or bargain."

"Or it was just a ruse," Porthos pointed out, the thought only just occurring to him and leaving a cold fear clamped around his heart. "If it's a way of trappin' more of us-"

"Aramis's life is on the line," Treville cut him off firmly, setting a hand on Porthos's shoulder in a reassuring squeeze. "I would very much hate to be in the shoes of any man trying to trap Athos and d'Artagnan right now. Or anyone foolish enough to get in their way. Porthos, you know them. They'll get the antidote."

Porthos nodded. He did know that. The question remained though, would it be in time?

Treville left him to continue caring for Aramis, but the truth was the burly musketeer had no idea what he was doing. Aramis was the medic, not him. Maybe he _should_ have let d'Artagnan stay with him; the pup had been learning from Aramis after all, but Porthos couldn't bear the thought of _not_ being at his friend's side.

So he did the best he could, keeping Aramis cool with the wet rag, murmuring soothing reassurances whenever Aramis opened bleary, vacant eyes. When the marksman started seizing, Porthos waited at the ready to... well, he didn't even know what to do, so stood helplessly by in case Aramis flung himself off the cot.

"Just hold on," he begged his friend yet again. "Athos and d'Artagnan will be back with the antidote soon."

They had to be.

.o.O.o.

D'Artagnan urged his horse on, harder than he would normally drive the animal. He felt the little vial tucked safely in his inner pocket. It wasn't much farther now... ten minutes and he would reach the city limits, another five would have him to the garrison. D'Artagnan knew it pained Athos to have sent him on ahead, knew only his pragmatism and logical mind had prevented him from charging out of the villa with d'Artagnan to get back to Aramis as soon as they could.

But _someone_ had to bring Delacroix in, and really how could the man have believed there would be no repercussions for this?

Although, if the crazy noble's plan had gone the way he'd intended, he might have gotten the musketeers' assurances that no charges would be brought against him as part of the payment for the antidote, in addition to the other ridiculous requests he'd had, too tired of being brushed aside by the king in his petitions for... whatever exactly it was. D'Artagnan had barely heard that part. It didn't matter; all that mattered was that the noble had poisoned a musketeer, and he was going to pay for it.

And d'Artagnan had to admit, he'd thought _he_ was angry, he'd even gone so far as to wonder how Athos could be so damned _calm_ about it all on the ride out to the villa.

Well. He'd quickly realized his error as soon as Athos reached Delacroix. Just because Athos _acted_ calm didn't mean he wasn't capable of the same rage as any of them - maybe even more so. D'Artagnan would make a note of it to never get on the swordsman's bad side again, and realized with a touch of chagrin that if Athos had truly been _fighting_ the day d'Artagnan had charged into the garrison, d'Artagnan would have been quite dead.

The city came into view but d'Artagnan didn't slow down, galloping in and shouting at the citizens to make way. By the time he reached the garrison, his sense of dread was nearly overwhelming. The Gascon flung himself off the horse, shouting at the musketeer in the doorway to take the steed; ordinarily he would have _never_ been so careless with a good animal or leave someone else to tend the loyal mount, but this was important. At a dead sprint, d'Artagnan raced for the infirmary and burst through the door.

Porthos was sitting at Aramis's side as though he hadn't even moved since d'Artagnan and Athos had left (and he probably hadn't), but he leaped to his feet as soon as he saw d'Artagnan there.

"Did you get it?" he demanded, hope and fear at war in his dark eyes.

D'Artagnan couldn't even speak, just nodded and hurried to the bedside, fishing the vial out of his pocket as he did.

Porthos nodded and leaned over, clutching Aramis's hand in his own. "Hold on, Aramis!" he insisted to his distinctly grey friend. "D'Artagnan's got the stuff! Please, Aramis..."

He looked terrible, clenching d'Artagnan's heart in greater fear that they must surely be too late. Sweat covered the marksman but he was shaking, every limb trembling. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, staring dully at the ceiling... there was no response to Porthos's words, no indication that he could hear them at all.

D'Artagnan swallowed and pulled out the stopper, forcing himself to move slowly and carefully so as not to spill any of the precious liquid. As gingerly as he could, he trickled the antidote into Aramis's mouth. The marksman slowly blinked and reflexively swallowed the medicine down, but otherwise showed no outward sign of an immediate recovery.

The silence extended, Porthos shifting restlessly, until he finally barked, "How long is it s'posed to take?"

"I don't know," d'Artagnan murmured. "I- I imagine it'll take a little time..."

"You're sure that stuff was good?" Porthos badgered, voice tinged in suspicion. "What if Delacroix-"

"Porthos. It's the right stuff." If only he could be completely sure of it, but d'Artagnan was willing to bet, from the utter terror Athos had instilled in the noble, that Delacroix wouldn't dare give them anything less than the actual antidote. Besides, he needed to keep Porthos calm as well. If d'Artagnan was already so attached to Aramis, he couldn't imagine what Porthos was going through.

Porthos huffed impatiently but accepted the answer, reclaiming his seat at Aramis's bedside. D'Artagnan pulled up another chair to collapse into, exhausted from the frantic race across the country. Neither spoke, and finally the vigil claimed his consciousness at last.

.o.O.o.

That was what Aramis woke to, nearly an hour later. His eyes blearily opened to see d'Artagnan slumped in a chair with his arms crossed, one boot on Aramis's bed, and Porthos beside him with his head bowed and hands clasped as though in prayer. Hmm. Porthos wasn't a particularly prayerful man. He must have been sincerely worried.

Everything felt a little too heavy and his insides felt like they were made of mush, but the fevered memories of the poison working its way through his system were already starting to fade, driven back into the shadows by the sight of his friends.

Aramis sighed a sleepy sigh, just enough for Porthos to hear, and was rewarded by the radiant smile directed his way.

"You're alright!" Porthos gasped softly, finding his hand and clutching it. "Aramis?"

Too tired to reply, the marksman nodded. Breathing felt easier already, his limbs weak but not seizing. "Sorry for worry'n' you," he rasped, then winced. His eyes trailed to a pitcher of water close by, which Porthos immediately grabbed.

"Here," Porthos murmured. "Easy, though."

Aramis wanted to make a remark about how he'd make a medic of all of them yet, but the thought took too much energy to form into words. He settled for allowing Porthos to help lift his head enough to swallow some of the water, then gave his friend a grateful smile. He'd tell him later. Since it looked like there was going to _be_ a later. That was all that mattered.


	12. #24: Blindfolded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is set early S1 before d'Artagnan got his commission.

**#24: Blindfolded - The Red Guard and the Musketeers have been rivals since their formation. Sometimes the like to have a little harmless fun at each other's expense. Sometimes it's not so harmless.**

* * *

"Filthy cowards!" d'Artagnan raged, squirming with all his might in an attempt to get back up on his feet. The thick rope that had been wound around his middle kept his arms trapped down at his sides, preventing him from drawing a weapon or throwing any punches. It also made it harder to keep his balance. Between that disadvantage and the blindfold wrapped over his eyes to keep him from seeing which direction the next attack would be coming from, d'Artagnan had no opportunity to defend himself.

The red guards who had waylaid him all seemed to find this terribly entertaining. Their jeers and taunts circled the unfortunate recruit, as did a heavy kick every time he tried to clamber back up.

D'Artagnan gasped as another blow came out of nowhere, driving the wind from his body and leaving him to double up and wheeze for precious oxygen. The insults levied at him fell on deaf ears. As soon as he got free of this, he thought with fury, he was going to beat each and every one of them into the ground, single-handedly.

"Shouldn't have thrown in your lot with that Musketeer rubbish," one of the guards snickered. The statement was followed by a hand fisting in his hair, pulling him halfway up off the ground. "Everyone knows they're sorry excuses for soldiers."

D'Artagnan felt blood dripping from his nose over his lip as he bared his teeth and snarled blindly back, "One of them is worth _ten_ of you!"

His loyal declaration was paid for with a punch to the cheek. What was one more bruise to add to the myriad he was rapidly accumulating? Reckless and outraged, the Gascon added, "None of you would dare face one of them one on one! You aren't fit to even speak of them!"

More blows rained down on him and he couldn't see to brace himself. Pure stubbornness (and the fact that they probably couldn't hear him anyway over the shouting and jeering) was all that kept him from any audible sounds of pain. For crying out loud, he wasn't even a musketeer! ...Yet! But when he was, oh, he would make them pay for this...

"One of 'em is worth ten of us, didya hear that, lads?" one of them asked with a loud guffaw. "Well, there _are_ ten of us, aren't there? An' one of you. Which means... you might want to recalculate that, little pig farmer."

"You'd think all his time wrestling pigs would have made him better at this," another hooted.

D'Artagnan's blood surged hot at the insult, and he snapped back, "You're saying you're no better than pigs, then?"

A beat of silence followed; he could just imagine their collective brains trying to work through the statement, which eventually one of them did. An angry shout preceded more kicks and punches that d'Artagnan couldn't evade, try as he might to anticipate the next shot. Surely they would tire of this soon, he thought frantically. Despite the Red Guards' ongoing rivalry with the Musketeers, they couldn't _actually_ kill him... could they?

"Wait, I know what'll make him squeal," one of the men suddenly called. "Where's Bruno?"

D'Artagnan had no idea who Bruno was, but the excited agreement from the others left him with no doubt he wasn't going to enjoy finding out. Multiple pairs of hands grabbed him by the arms, hauling him up to his feet and dragging the blindfolded recruit along. He struggled and shouted, doing his best to wriggle free of the rope around his middle, but they held him firm. Somewhere nearby, he heard a gate or door being opened, then he was pushed forward. Tripping on the cobblestone, d'Artagnan ended up sprawled on the ground again, only to freeze at the sound of throaty, furious barking.

"Shit," he hissed under his breath, trying to scramble back from the newest threat, knowing that he had no chance at fighting off a dog without the use of his hands. "Bastards!"

"Bruno, you hungry?" one of the guards closest to him asked. Footsteps retreated, leaving d'Artagnan alone.

Bruno, and he sounded _huge_ , started barking and snarling even louder, sounding desperate to get at d'Artagnan's throat.

Heart pounding in his chest, d'Artagnan said his mental goodbyes to anyone who had ever known him.

"Get 'im, Bruno!"

D'Artagnan felt something huge barreling forward, heard the sound of heavy paws and enraged growling; he curled up to make as small a target as possible and finally gasped in fear.

Having finally achieved the reaction they'd been hoping for, the red guards dissolved into laughter.

.o.O.o.

Athos wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Since d'Artagnan's first, rather memorable moment barging into their lives, he'd proven himself something of a magnet for trouble. Athos recognized it; he had two other brothers who were just as bad. What he was _not_ expecting was for the Red Guard to have gotten themselves involved with the newest recruit.

Though, he was quite sure it would have taken nothing more than a snide comment about the musketeers in general, or one of the three Inseparables in particular, and d'Artagnan would have been trying to duel the entire complement of Red Guard. Athos shook his head in spite of the silent affection. Loyalty was commendable. Perhaps once they taught him to temper it somewhat...

In any case, even Athos had not been expecting a full squad of red guards to have waylaid the boy. Cowardice was one thing, but surely this was beneath even them. Coolly, the swordsman drew a pistol and fired it into the air. It worked to make all of the guards duck and spin around in fright, though it had also made d'Artagnan flinch violently from his spot on the ground. Not what he'd been going for.

"Restrain that brute," he ordered calmly, nodding to the dog they'd been using to taunt d'Artagnan. The beast was still wearing a collar and lead; he suspected they hadn't been planning to actually let the animal attack d'Artagnan, only wanting to get a frightened reaction from him.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan asked shakily. "Is that you?"

"Mm," Athos assented, directing his coldest glare at the Red Guard lieutenant, the one who should have been above this childish game. "Porthos."

"You lot," Porthos growled in disdain, dismounting from his horse and storming over towards d'Artagnan with his dagger in hand. The red guards scurried to get out of his way. "Pathetic, that's what you all are."

"The next time you get bored, we'd thank you to find your entertainment elsewhere," Aramis added flippantly, his own pistol idly resting on his leg but pointed right at their attack dog in case any of them had the bright idea to loose the beast after all. "And leave our recruits alone."

Athos watched as Porthos cut d'Artagnan free and pulled the blindfold away. The lad was quick to jump to his feet, and he was a mess of bruises, but Athos was pleased to see he appeared only furious and not scared. Good. It wouldn't do to let the bullies know they'd obviously gotten to him. He was also glad to see Porthos merely offering d'Artagnan a hand back up without fussing over him too much, none of them wanting to give the guards the impression that d'Artagnan needed coddling or protection. Lifting his chin, Athos turned his attention back to the lieutenant.

"Although," he went on. "If you're so anxious to prove yourselves against a musketeer, any one of you may challenge me. Right here. Right now. Any takers?"

His eyes slid from one to the next, daring each and every one of them to try their luck against a musketeer who was ready and able to fight back. To nobody's surprise, each of the guards looked away as his eyes settled on them. By now, Porthos was back on his horse and given d'Artagnan a lift up behind him. Athos nodded in satisfaction and glowered around once more, just to make sure the message had sunk in.

"The captain will hear of this," he growled, before wheeling his horse around and charging out of the Red Guards' courtyard.

He led the way back to the Musketeer garrison at the same clipped pace, but immediately swung down from his horse to grab d'Artagnan as soon as he dismounted from behind Porthos. Without a word, he took the lad's chin in his hand, turning his face this way and that to see what damage had been done.

"'M alright," d'Artagnan assured him, wincing and bruised, but as fierce as ever. "Next time I see one of their sniveling faces, I'm going to-"

"Whoa there," Aramis chuckled. He stepped over to the recruit, draping a casual arm around his shoulders. From his unconcerned grin, only one of his close friends would realize he was getting in place to grab d'Artagnan if he collapsed. "Don't get me wrong, I do love the idea of those _tontos_ getting what they richly deserve."

"An' the captain would feel the same," Porthos said with a smirk, only barely masking the vengeful ire Athos knew he felt at their recruit being picked on. "But then he'd have to reprimand us..."

"And then you're mucking stables..."

"And most importantly, there's no sense giving the Cardinal reason to convince the King not to give you the commission you deserve," Athos finished for them. From his assessment, the lad had come to no real harm, nothing worse than some bad bruises and injured pride. "Now go see Serge. We had him save some supper for you when you weren't back in time."

Clearly still raring for a fight and unsatisfied at the lack of vengeance, d'Artagnan nevertheless nodded and headed for the mess. Athos watched him go, rubbing his chin broodingly.

Aramis crossed his arms and smirked. "There's some fire in that one."

"He's gonna make a great musketeer," agreed Porthos. "If he can stay outta trouble long enough."

Yes, Athos mused with a silent nod. Yes, he was quite sure d'Artagnan was headed for greatness. And they would be behind him every step of the way.


	13. #26: Concussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The professional in me feels compelled to point out that the whole idea that you shouldn't sleep after a concussion is a medical myth. But the thought worked for this prompt so I used it, and you shouldn't be getting medical advice from fanfiction anyway XD
> 
> Also... this isn't really even trying to be whump. It's been 26 days. Have some almost-crack instead XD

**#26: Concussion - Athos has a concussion. His friends are sitting up with him to keep him awake. Their reward? Getting to see what happens when you combine a good knock over the head with pain medication in someone who's normally rather stoic.**

* * *

D'Artagnan knocked on the door and poked his head in with a small grin.

"Aramis, it's your turn to get some-" he started, before cutting off. It would be in poor taste to mention sleep when Athos wasn't allowed to have any. Shrugging sheepishly, he stole a quick glance at Athos but it seemed he'd been worried for nothing. Athos either hadn't heard the remark or wasn't reacting to it. Aramis, on the other hand, quickly got to his feet and hurried for the door.

"I should warn you," the marksman said in a low voice, taking a quick look back at Athos. "He's, ah... taken quite a knock to the head."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "Yes, isn't that why we're sitting up with him?" he asked. "Bad concussion?"

"Yes, but between that and the medication we gave him for the pain-" Aramis stopped, raising a hand to hide an obviously amused grin. "Well, never mind, I suppose you'll see for yourself."

That... didn't sound good. D'Artagnan's other eyebrow rose to meet the first, but Aramis didn't elaborate.

"Alright," he murmured. "Well, Porthos will wake you for the last shift."

Aramis nodded, clapping d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "Just don't let Athos fall asleep," he warned. "And... well, enjoy."

Then he slipped away to find his own bed, leaving d'Artagnan to shrug off the odd comment and head into the room to sit beside Athos.

"How's your head?" he asked in sympathy, not at all expecting the enormous smile that Athos directed his way.

"D'Artagnan, I'm so glad you're here."

"You... you are?"

"Come 'ere, sit down."

D'Artagnan, already there and sitting, glanced around, baffled. The way Athos was slurring his words made him sound almost drunk, except d'Artagnan was by now quite used to drunk Athos, and he tended to get surly, not friendly.

"Have I told you," Athos asked, leaning forward and pointing at d'Artagnan. "Have I told you how glad I am you're here?"

"Erm... just now, yes-"

"No, I'm so glad you're _here_. With the Musketeers. Don' tell Aramis and Porthos, but, y'know we're getting old. 'Specially me, I'm older'n both of them. I used to worry about what would happen after I was gone-"

"I mean, there are other musketeers, you know..."

"-but I don' worry anymore. Because you're not jus' a musketeer, yer _special_. You're goin' to be the best thing that's ever happen' to the reg'ment."

D'Artagnan found himself at a loss for words. For lack of a better response, he chuckled. "I... well... Athos, I think you were hit harder than I thought."

Athos nodded solemnly, tapping his head and then wincing. "Yep."

D'Artagnan couldn't help it—he laughed. Who knew how much of this Athos would remember by the time the concussion and drugs wore off. In the meantime, he was going to enjoy this.

.o.O.o.

"No, no, no! Athos, wake up. You can't sleep yet, you know that."

Porthos prodded his friend sharply with his elbow, making Athos jerk back upright with a sniff.

"Wasn' sleepin'. Oh, was I sleepin'?"

"You were tryin'," Porthos replied with a snicker. This was the most fun Athos had been in... well, ever. Porthos would be glad to have the solemn, serious Athos back, but meanwhile this was quite the trip.

"Oh. I'm sorry, Porthos." Athos leaned in. "Glad you're watchin' out for me. Y'always do, y'know?"

Porthos had to bite his lip hard to keep the grin off his face, but he nodded. "I know. You mentioned it a few times now."

"You're jus' like... like this big... big... protector musketeer," Athos elaborated with a wave of his arms. "Jus' goin' 'round protectin' everyone. Always feel a little safer when yer 'round. Or when I gotta- gotta send Ar'mis somewhere, knowin' you're going too, is just, it makes me- I'm glad, y'know? Because you protect us. Always have."

"Athos," Porthos murmured, feeling his face flush.

"You got our backs. Always do, I- I don' know what we'd do without you."

Porthos cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean... you'd be alright... we all look after each other, you know? You too."

"Yeah... I do... but, you're jus', you're really _good_ at it. I need to close my eyes."

"Wait- Athos, no come on, wake up!"

 _._ o.O.o.

Aramis gave Athos another draught of the pain medication Lemay had brought for them, watching to make sure he swallowed the whole thing down. The medic was sure Athos would have quite the headache for the rest of the week, but he should be able to sleep soon. Aramis checked his pupils again, tutting when Athos grumbled about it.

"Now now, where's that nice young man from before?" he teased his friend. "Last time you couldn't stop talking about how much you admired me. You're quite welcome to keep going, if you want."

"M' head hurts."

"I know, my friend. I'm sorry. The medicine should help."

"'M tired."

"I know," Aramis said patiently. "I just need you to stay up a little longer, alright? You can sleep in the morning."

"You're mean."

Aramis laughed at that one, said so petulantly that he wished he'd been writing all of this down to read to Athos later when he was feeling more himself. He could only imagine the mortification. The laughter only made Athos scowl more, the noble swordsman crossing his arms like a child. Then, Athos slumped.

"I don' mean it," he confided to Aramis. "You're not mean. It's not in you. Y' never were, even when I deserved it. You know you're the only one who'd even come near me, when I firs' got here? Didn' want you to."

"Yes, you made that clear," Aramis snickered.

"Didn' matter t' you though. Was like, you'd decided I needed a _friend_ an' y'weren't going away until I had one."

Aramis hummed in agreement; that actually had been more or less his thought process, back when Athos had joined the Musketeer regiment and immediately drove everyone away with his standoffish nature. Not that it could completely hide the huge heart and ferocious loyalty underneath, but it took patient eyes to see it.

"Don' think I ever said it," Athos mused, tilting his head back to examine the ceiling as though the answer would be written there. "Mm... no, I didn't. But I'm really glad you did."

Smiling, Aramis patted Athos's shoulder carefully.

"I know," he said simply. "And so are we."

"I'm a handful."

"You are," the marksman agreed between surprised laughs. "Though not half as much as any of the rest of us, though I don't suppose that's saying a lot. But we wouldn't have you any other way."

Athos smiled and closed his eyes, the picture of contentment. Aramis almost hated that eventually this would all wear off. But in the meantime, he was glad his friend knew just how much he was cared for.


	14. #28: Accidents

**#28: Accidents - An accidental collision at sea leaves Porthos and Aramis in dire straits. Land is in sight, but what difference does that make if Porthos can't swim?**

* * *

Porthos groaned and grabbed hold of a nearby rail, clinging to it for dear life. His stomach turned as the ship continued to roll, while up on deck, sailors and soldiers alike shouted in indecipherable panic. They'd hit something, he'd felt it, and the floor was quickly changing places with the wall. Porthos was no sailor, but that seemed bad.

"Porthos!" he heard Aramis bellow, followed by his friend stumbling down the stairwell and into the main berth. "Porthos, we need to go!"

"Wh' 'append?" he asked, one arm around his stomach as he tried valiantly to keep the meager morsels he'd eaten for dinner from making an encore appearance.

Aramis splashed through the bit of water already starting to cover the floor and grabbed Porthos's arm, hauling him back towards the stairs.

"Some kind of fishing boat in the water," he reported tersely. "Came out of nowhere. The captain tried to maneuver around it at the last second and we've sliced the ship open on a reef. There's no saving it. Captain says everyone off, let's go!"

"Off?" Porthos asked in alarm. His eyes widened. "You mean... into the water?"

"We're almost to land," Aramis insisted. "Let's go!"

The ship pitched further to the side, throwing them both off balance so that they crashed to the floor. Porthos struggled to find his feet again, watching in numb horror as more water came splashing down the stairwell, already at a near perfect diagonal to how it ought to be. This was not how he wanted to die. Grappling for Aramis's arm and heaving him back up to his feet, the two musketeers splashed frantically to the stairs and hauled themselves up onto the deck.

The scene was absolute chaos. Porthos stood frozen, momentarily trying to make sense of it all. The lights of Le Havre was visible on the horizon; Aramis was right, they were so close. But "so close" did them no good at all; half a league or a hundred, he couldn't swim.

"Boats?" Porthos choked out, watching as crewmen and passengers simply leaped into the water.

Aramis gritted his teeth, gripping Porthos by the doublet. "Most of them were on the side we hit," he said. "They're smashed. Porthos, I can get you to the shore, I promise."

"I can't swim!" Porthos shouted at him, panic nearly throwing him into hysteria. His eyes widened as he watched more of the crew jump overboard. This was the nightmare he'd lived with for as long as he could remember, stories of ancestors jumping to their deaths from the slave ships because drowning was better than a life of slavery...

A hand grabbed his cheek, forcing his attention back to Aramis. Amid the chaos and pandemonium, the marksman was solemn and resolute.

"Porthos. I can get us there. I need you to trust me, can you do that?"

Shakily, Porthos nodded without even pondering the question. Of course he trusted Aramis, but...

"Take off your doublet!" Aramis ordered, swiftly divesting himself of his own. "And your boots. Hurry! Listen to me, when we get in the water- don't look at me like that, you can do this! When we get in the water, I'm going to hold onto you and swim! You _have_ to hold still, do you understand? If you're thrashing around, you'll drown us both! Just trust me and lay back. I _will_ get you there!"

Porthos nodded again, trying not to listen to the sound of shouting and panicked cries from the water that were doing nothing for his state of mind. He let Aramis shove and prod him down the slope of the deck to the railing closest to the water; even listing as they were, it was still a good jump. Swallowing, he shook his head.

"I can't-"

"Yes, you can! I'm right behind you. Remember, once I've got you, _don't move_ , just let me do the work. Porthos, are you with me?"

His mind was starting to turn fuzzy, staring at the choppy water. Night had already fallen, making the ocean appear black and monstrous but for where the full moon shone its paltry light over the scene. He couldn't do this...

The next thing Porthos knew, a hand had shoved him hard, throwing him off the sinking ship. With a shout, arms and legs flailing, Porthos hit the water and panicked even worse when it immediately covered his head. Something crashed into the water beside him. The something grabbed him under the arms and yanked him back up to the surface. As soon as Porthos's head cleared the water, he gasped for air and scrambled to get himself turned around so he could cling to whatever it was holding him up.

"Porthos, stop!" a voice barked in his ear. "Remember what I said! You'll drown us if you hold onto me, let me do the work! _Trust_ me!"

Aramis, it was Aramis. Porthos did trust him. Forcing his mind to focus despite the panic, the musketeer squeezed his eyes shut and held still. One arm snaked around his chest from behind, holding him up above the water. Aramis started to swim, painstakingly slow; how were they ever going to reach the shore? It seemed so much further away from the water than it had on the boat...

"Just trust me," Aramis murmured as though hearing the renewed panic.

Porthos had to fight the continuing urge to twist around and grab onto Aramis, focusing so hard on not moving that eventually everything else disappeared from his mind. He went numb, letting both the terror and determination swallow him whole, barely even feeling the water lapping at his face as Aramis swam them both closer and closer to the shores of Le Havre.

"Porthos," he finally heard Aramis murmur, sounding exhausted. He opened his eyes to find them both lying in the shallows, waves lapping over their still submerged legs. "P-Porthos... we made it..."

Looking around, hardly believing Aramis had actually swam that entire distance, Porthos pushed himself up onto shaking arms. Aramis didn't move, eyes fluttering and chest heaving for air. Porthos could tell his friend was spent, physically and mentally. He looked back out into the water, the ship nearly out of sight under the ocean waves. There was no way, he realized; there was no way they should have actually gotten such a distance. Aramis had saved them both by pure grit and stubbornness.

The thought did not make him feel the slightest bit better, but Porthos was still numb, so he pushed everything else aside to deal with later. For now, they'd washed up much further down the shore than the actual harbor and needed to get to the city for help. Aramis had gotten them this far; Porthos would take them the rest of the way. Then and only then could he collapse.

Struggling to his feet, Porthos knelt and heaved Aramis up over his shoulder. The marksman mumbled something but Porthos shushed him.

"Jus' rest," he murmured to his dripping friend. "I'll take it from here."


	15. #30: Wound Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be my last Muskies fic for the Whumptober 2020 challenge. Thank you all so much for taking this journey with me! Feel free to stop by if you're on Tumblr, you can find me as 29-pieces!

**#30: Wound Reveal - Aramis needs to get to a doctor, without delay, if he's going to live. D'Artagnan letting on how badly he himself is also injured would be just such a delay. Besides, if they're already heading to a doctor, then he might as well stay quiet and keep going, right?**

* * *

They were only an hour's ride from the nearest town large enough to have a physician who could help Aramis, and that was why d'Artagnan bit his lip and didn't say a word. One hand slid under his doublet, pressing firmly against the wound. He didn't know how bad it was; he knew it was bad enough that any other time, he would have immediately alerted the other three so they could stop to look at it.

Riding hurt. Moving hurt. _Breathing_ hurt.

But Aramis needed medical attention, _now._ If d'Artagnan spoke up, Athos would have to decide whether to stop to help him, which would put Aramis at risk, or press on and ignore d'Artagnan's injury, which would put d'Artagnan at risk. Or he might decide to split up, to stay with d'Artagnan and send Porthos ahead with Aramis, which would only leave all four of them more vulnerable to those who might be in pursuit to finish the job.

No, d'Artagnan didn't want to put that kind of weight on Athos's shoulders. It was only an hour's ride. He... he could make it that far.

He hoped.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan gritted out to distract himself from the stabbing pain in his side.

Porthos didn't look up as d'Artagnan spurred his horse to draw even with him. His grim expression remained fixed on the road ahead, wary of any obstacles that might jostle the body held tightly against him in the saddle.

"Same," Porthos grunted. "Athos, if we don' get there soon..."

"He'll make it," Athos returned over his shoulder, taking the lead to set as swift a pace as the unconscious Aramis would be able to manage.

D'Artagnan fell into a steady count, one to sixty, over and over in his mind. Not that he could keep up with how many times he finished the count, but at least each time he finished was one minute sooner to reach a doctor and he could rest. _One... two... three..._

Had he counted thirty minutes yet? It had to have been.

_Fifty-seven... fifty-eight... fifty-nine... sixty._

How many now? At least forty, surely. They had to be there soon. Twenty more minutes, he could make it.

_One... two... three..._

D'Artagnan didn't dare remove his hand from under his leathers; by now he could feel the blood hot-slick on his fingers. His shirt was soaked and getting sticky over the wound. It would hurt, taking it off. It hurt now...

_One... two... three..._

Each time the horse's hooves struck the ground, d'Artagnan had to clench his jaw tighter and tighter. The air was starting to get thin; maybe he should say something. They were close enough, Porthos could ride ahead from here, but what could Athos do for d'Artagnan that the doctor wouldn't be able to handle better? At this point they were nearly there, he might as well tough it out for the remaining minutes.

Everything was getting blurry. D'Artagnan jerked in the saddle as he felt himself folding forward. The movement jostled his wound and his hand slipped out from beneath his doublet, coated red. He folded forward again as the world pitched around him.

.o.O.o.

Slowly, d'Artagnan peeled his eyes open, frowning as the throbbing in his side intensified by way of greeting his return to consciousness. He reached instinctively for the wound and his frown deepened when his fingertips brushed fabric instead of sliced skin. D'Artagnan lifted his head to see that he was in a room instead of a forest, and Athos was watching him.

"Was there something you had been meaning to tell me?" the elder musketeer asked, somehow managing to make even his casual, aloof tone sound rather menacing.

D'Artagnan gulped.

"How's Aramis?" he asked instead of answering.

"He'll live. I'm finding myself incredulous that a boy as clever as you somehow failed to notice you were bleeding out all over the French countryside. And yet, given your absolute silence on the matter, one can only assume you were unaware. Otherwise, you would have told us you needed medical attention."

Oh, Athos was angry. Even though his face was the perfectly schooled blank canvas it always was, d'Artagnan could feel the emotion simmering under that calm surface. He swallowed again, forcing himself to sit upright in the bed he was lying in.

"We needed to get Aramis to a doctor-"

"We could have at least bandaged your wound!" Athos snapped, some of the stoic exterior cracking. "You're lucky you weren't hurt worse when you fell off the horse. Do you understand that you jeopardized all of us by keeping that hidden? What if those spies had caught up to us? We wouldn't have known you were already compromised! We might have been counting on you to help fight them off when you were clearly in no shape to do so!"

D'Artagnan ducked his head, a weight settling over his heart at the thought. "I'm sorry," he said truthfully. "I thought I could make it... Aramis was worse off, his injury mattered more- I didn't want you to have to make difficult decisions-"

"That's not up to you," Athos interrupted, face darkening. "I was left to make difficult decisions anyways, _without_ all of the information that I needed. You're a musketeer now, d'Artagnan. I expect complete honesty in the future, do you understand?"

Silently, d'Artagnan nodded, and Athos huffed.

"Good. For your sake, Porthos and I won't mention this to Aramis."

D'Artagnan nodded again, then asked in a small voice, "He's alright, though?"

Athos rolled his eyes. "Yes, Aramis will be fine. As soon as you've both rested, we'll continue on for Paris." He paused. Then, appraising d'Artagnan, added softer, "You may be our newest member, d'Artagnan, but you don't matter less than Aramis because of it. I trust you know that."

He did. D'Artagnan was still trying to find his place among this band of warriors but if nothing else, Athos's words were a promise that he _had_ one. And he would do his best to honor that, in any and every way he could.


End file.
